The Next Step
by Uptake
Summary: Sark Season Two. Complete.
1. Launch Gone Awry

**Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own Alias or anything that may be related to it. Also, the dialogue is the exact Alias script.**

The atmosphere inside the Asiatic Space Agency launch facility was both excited and tense. Sark entered the building with his head held high, as if he owned the place. Arrogance was an art form that he had mastered a long time ago. It was amazing the results you got when people respected you, or better yet, feared you.

Sark hadn't taken two steps before he was accosted by a front desk employee. Sark introduced himself and was immediately taken to the control room on the top floor.

The main ASA man greeted him enthusiastically. "Mr. Sark! Welcome to our control center," he said cheerfully. "Will you be the only observer from your company today?"

_My company?__ Oh, right._ "I'm afraid my associates have a plan to lobby Opec for drilling rights."

"We are about to begin the final systems check," the ASA man informed him, looking at the row of monitors.

"Excellent." Despite himself, Sark felt a tiny thrill of anticipation. He had been looking forward to this.

Sark walked over to where the technicians were seated and observed them working.

"Radio frequency system, check."

"Activation vehicle telemetry, check."

"Onboard power test, check."

"Data transponder and launch vehicle remote control, check."

Everything seemed to be going quite well, Sark thought with approval. Then all of the screens turned to static. One of the technicians stood abruptly, knocking over his chair. "I lost the TV feed to the launch deck!"

Even though he had no reason to be, Sark was immediately suspicious. What the hell was going on? He glanced around the room, hoping to find someone or something to blame for the current problem.

The ASA man was looking intently at the monitors, as though he could solve the problem simply by staring. Sark took a step towards him. "What's the problem?" He asked in a clipped voice.

A bizarre idea popped up in the back of his mind. _Could it be…?_ No. That was absurd. And yet…he could almost feel her presence, as if she were in the room with him.

The ASA man turned and faced Sark, looking strained. "I'll know shortly." _Yes, see that you do._

Sark paced back and forth. The ASA man addressed him again. "Power surge. We'll be back online in three minutes. We assure you, this in no way indicates there is a problem with the launch."

Sark hardly heard a word he said. His mind was whirling. This was not a power surge. This was sabotage. And he had a fairly good idea about who was behind it. At first he had thought it impossible, but now he thought it was probable. After all, who else would it be?

"Is there anywhere on the launch zone that is not visible from here?" Sark asked suddenly.

The ASA man frowned slightly. "Just the exhaust ducts, but our ground crew doesn't go anywhere near there during countdown."

So she was in the exhaust ducts. A dangerous place to be, considering the current situation. And it was about to become even more dangerous. "Move up the launch," Sark ordered. His heartbeat quickened.

The ASA man looked at him in disbelief. "Pardon?"

_Was I unclear?_ "You said yourself the cameras don't affect the launch."

The ASA man responded slowly, as though he were talking to a lunatic. "Technically, they don't, but if something were to go wrong we would want to study the—"

Sark cut him off impatiently. "Then begin the final countdown. Or should we abort altogether, and I can spread the word amongst my colleagues that the Asiatic Space Agency is nothing but the poor man's version of NASA."

Words were not Sark's preferred choice when it came to threats, but using a gun was obviously out of the question. He wondered if the ASA man had ever had a gun pressed to his temple. Probably not.

However, the threat had its intended effect on the ASA man. He folded. "Initiate the final countdown! We're advancing the timetable!" Sark stood back, momentarily satisfied.

The technicians went down their list. "Switch to internal power."

"Transmitter code…"

"Transmitter shows engine to launch."

_Get on with it already,_ Sark thought with a trace of irritation.

"All systems green for launch in thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight…

Sark was so keyed up he was having trouble breathing. If Sydney was really here, and he was almost certain that she was, would she get out in time? He knew she was good, there was no doubt about that. But exactly how good was she?

"Three…Two…"

Sark could see Sydney's face so clearly in his mind that he almost expected her to materialize at his side. He inhaled sharply and held his breath. The rocket was launched. An immense cloud of smoke and fire filled the air. Sark's eyes gleamed as he watched the rocket rise into the sky. Soon enough, he would find out if Sydney really had been present at the launch, or he had just been being paranoid.

ooooooooooooooo

Two minutes later, an attractive redhead walked quickly across the lobby, her short hair bouncing. She tossed her visitor's badge onto the counter, and a secretary called to her. "Did you enjoy the launch?"

The pretty lady didn't even stop as she answered over her shoulder. "It was a thrill!"


	2. Ice Princess, Ice Pick

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Sark moved surreptitiously through the ice cave, his gun at his side. Strands of eerie music filtered through the cave to his ears. The music box had been opened. He sped up. As the faint music grew louder, Sark became more cautious. He peeked around the next corner. The sight that greeted him made his heart stop.

Sydney Bristow was standing over the music box spraying it with a solution. Sark wasn't close enough to see what effect it was having on the box, but the hissing noise it made did not sound good. Suddenly, Sydney put one hand up to her ear. "I read you Dixon, what's wrong?" She asked, bringing one hand up to her earpiece.

_I believe this is where I make my dramatic entrance._ Sark stepped away from the corner and into plain view just as Sydney spun around to face him.

They stood there looking at each other for a minute. She looked quite striking, her pale complexion standing out next to her dark hair. At that moment, Sark thought she looked like an ice princess. A beautiful, untouchable, ice princess.

"Put down the case," he said. It was said firmly, with no room for argument. It didn't hurt that he had his gun trained on her, either. He wasn't planning on using it, as it was more of a prop than anything else, but Sydney didn't know that.

Sydney obeyed him immediately and placed the case on the floor. "Slide it over."

Sydney kicked the case across the floor. Sark stopped it with his boot. He looked back at Sydney, but this time he looked amused. "It was you giving us problems at the launch," he said. Sydney said nothing, but her eyes betrayed her. They were slightly mocking. _I must be rubbing off on her_, he thought, feeling slightly unnerved.

Sark searched for something witty to say. It didn't take him long to come up with, "I'd offer you passage back to civilization, but my submersible only seats four." He let a smirk slide onto his face.

Sydney's purple lips twitched, and for a second, Sark thought she might smile. Instead, she continued to stare defiantly back at him. After a minute, she spoke. "It's the thought that counts."

_And I'm the most thoughtful person you know, Princess_. Sark was about to say something when Sydney's hand shot up. She had a pickaxe. Before he could even move, Sydney flung the axe in his direction. It lodged deep in his left thigh.

A howl of pain was ripped from Sark's throat as he fell backwards. His gun went off, spraying bullets in every direction. Sark was unaware of everything except the pain that seared through his body, almost rendering him unconscious. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought he heard ice breaking.

Sark took a deep breath and opened his eyes. His vision was blurry and tinged with black. He sat up and looked down at his thigh. Blood was flowing freely from his wound, and the red blood on the white ice made a shocking contrast. Taking another deep breath, he grabbed the handle of the axe and yanked. It came free. A wave of pain swept over him.

It wasn't safe to stay in the cave, and Sark knew he had to get out immediately. He didn't know where Sydney or any of her team had gone, and they could come for him at any second. Struggling to his feet, Sark grabbed his gun and the case with the music box. Then, limping as quickly as he could, he turned and made his way out of the cave, leaving a trail of blood behind him.


	3. Consequences Be Damned

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Sark had been pacing for two hours in his little Falkan hut. Many thoughts passed through his mind, but one kept coming back to plague him. It was a subject that usually only haunted him late at night, when he lay alone in bed. It didn't matter where he was: Paris, London, Mexico, or the States, it was always the same question. Was he beyond the point of redemption?

Not long ago, he had posed the question to Allison. She had just sneered at him and laughed before turning and walking out of the room. He hadn't brought it up again, deciding that in the future he would go to Irina first, as he usually did. Irina would listen, and she would take him seriously.

Sark stopped pacing and rested his palms on the small wooden table in front of him. Despite his lifestyle, his profession, his actions, he had never really considered himself a bad guy. He failed to see how he was any different from others in his field, the ones who were viewed as "the good guys." They did certain things for a cause, as did he. So what was the difference?

Sark shook his head slightly. It was a waste of time to think about things like redemption, morals, values, and the like. They were irrelevant, and they didn't change anything. He resumed his pacing.

The thick silence that covered the room was suddenly deafening. Sark was acutely aware of it as he walked over to his prisoner, Klaus Richter. Richter was unconscious at the moment, small drops of sweat rolling down the sides of his face. Sark silently derided himself. He had nearly tortured this man to death, and yet he wondered if he was really a bad guy. How stupid, of course he was. He had to be. He most definitely wasn't a good guy, and the opposite of good was bad. It was that simple, wasn't it?

Turning, Sark walked back over to the wooden table and sat down in one of the chairs, wishing he had something to do. Most of his men weren't here at the moment. One was sleeping in a corner and two others were supposed to be patrolling outside.

It was quiet. Almost too quiet…

A second later, the silence was shattered as the door to the small hut was knocked down. Sark was on his feet in a millisecond, instinctively reached for one of the several guns he had planted on his person. Four men stormed into his hide-out, guns blazing. He immediately returned fire, while at the same time searching for an avenue of escape.

The front door was definitely not an option. The only window in the tiny building was boarded up, at his own orders. Sark cursed himself quite thoroughly in his head. Well, there really was only one thing he could do…

Taking a deep breath, Sark hurled himself at the window. He hit it forcefully, causing the boards to splinter and break. Momentum made his body disappear quickly through the window.

Instinctively, Sark curled himself into a ball before hitting the ground. Rolling to his feet, he ran blindly away from the shack, not bothering to see if any of his men had survived. They were all the same anyway: expendable and easily replaced.

Sark reached a wooded area and continued running until he felt he was an adequate distance away. Then he stopped and slumped against a tree, his chest heaving.

There was no doubt in Sark's mind that Sloane had ordered the present attack on him, and that Sloane was after the music box. Sydney must have told him it was destroyed, so why would he want it back? Just to verify her story?

Perhaps Sloane was finally becoming suspicious of his favorite agent, as he should have a long time ago. Or perhaps Sloane just wanted it because it was a Rambaldi artifact. The latter was more likely, because if Sloane hadn't caught onto Sydney (and Jack's) double agent routine by now, he wouldn't figure it out unless someone flat out told him…

Which led to the plan Irina had laid out for him months ago. He had given her his loyalty, but he wasn't so sure about her plan. There were so many things that could go wrong, so many variables.

After a minute, Sark straightened up and commenced walking further into the trees. He was limping slightly, due to the fact that the wound inflicted by Sydney hadn't healed completely yet. That girl was nothing but trouble, Sark decided. And she was getting sloppy in her work. She had left so many clues behind as regards to her true loyalties that Sloane should have caught on by now. Oh well, it wasn't his problem…yet.

And to top off this terrific evening, he was now forced to abandon his Falkan hideout, which was a favorite due to its remote location. It also irked him that Sloane had somehow managed to track him so easily. He would have to be more careful in the future.

Sark's mind returned to Irina's plan, which he had been thinking about before the unwelcome intrusion into his hut. As he walked further and further into the dark woods, Sark finally reached a decision. He would go through with Irina's little plan. He would do exactly as she wished, and to hell with the consequences.

A/N: This scene was pretty short, and there was no dialogue, but I wanted to include it because I thought it was really cool when Sark jumped out the window. Anyway, please review and let me know what you think. Oh, and I apologize if you thought the redemption part was a little bit out of character for Sark, but I believe that he must think of things like that at times.


	4. Trip to the Library

**Disclaimer: See chapter one. **

Sark walked furtively down the hallway, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. He was wearing a Russian military uniform, and he had to admit, it made him feel rather dashing. He almost wished there was somebody around to admire him, but there wasn't.

A slight movement towards the back of the library attracted Sark's attention as he entered the room through one of its side entrances. A woman, also dressed in uniform, sat at a desk in front of a computer. She had short red hair and was typing furiously.

A second later, Sark caught a glimpse of her profile. He grinned. _Ah, of course_, he thought. He quickly wiped the grin off his face and pulled out his gun. Stepping forward, he brought the gun up to her face. The crane behind him beeped as it delivered the book they both were after. He cocked the gun.

The red-haired woman froze, and then slowly looked up at him. Sydney looked extremely good in uniform, Sark thought, unaware that she was unwillingly thinking something along the same lines about him.

If Sydney was surprised by his sudden appearance, she didn't show it. She just stared at him blankly, waiting for him to speak. So he did.

"Whatever Arvin Sloane pays you, it can't be enough," he said. "Would you consider coming to work for me if it meant I'd let you walk out of here?" He held his breath. If she said yes, then Irina's plan would be unnecessary. If she said yes, he wouldn't have to work with Arvin Sloane. If she said yes, they would make an unbeatable team.

He had to be persuasive, but not pushy. "I believe if you took the time to hear the comprehensive offer, you might actually say yes." Sydney was still looking at him, but her expression was unreadable. For a second Sark thought she might agree to at least hear him out, but that delusion was quickly squashed.

She looked him up and down slowly, as though checking him out. Why did they insist on keeping it so damn hot in here? "You're cute, but I'll pass," Sydney said coyly. If Sark didn't know better, he would have thought she was flirting with him. But of course she wasn't.

Sydney made a quick move with her hand, and suddenly the alarms were going off. Before Sark could quite comprehend what was going on, she leapt from her seat and delivered an uppercut to his face. His hat went flying off. _Goddamn that hurt_, Sark thought. _Why does she always end up causing me bodily harm?_

He retaliated quickly though, landing his own punch. They sparred ferociously for a minute, and then Sark kicked Sydney in the side, causing her to fall sideways into a bookshelf. Without sparing her a second glance, Sark ran over to the book. He saw the map. Then he saw the guards.

They came streaming into the library. They caught sight of him almost immediately, and began firing. Sark rolled behind a desk and returned fire. He was dimly aware of Sydney sneaking out of the room as he exchanged shots with the guards.

How was he going to get out of here? A tiny sliver of panic forced its way into his brain. _I must be calm_, Sark chanted silently. _There is always a way out. Always. No exceptions_.

Sark remembered that his last escape had been through a window. Seeing as though he was quite a ways up from the ground though, that would not be advisable in this case. Sark made a quick decision and ran for the door that Sydney had disappeared through. It led to the stairs.

Nobody except the guards in the library knew that he was one of the people they were after. Shouts and heavy footsteps alerted him to the fact that more guards were coming up the stairs. A team of guards reached Sark's level.

Hoping to God that his plan would work, Sark assumed an authoritative expression. He stepped forward confidently. "She went upstairs. Hurry, before she finds a way out!" He ordered in Russian.

The guards didn't even respond. Instead, they swept on up the steps to the seventh floor. Sark descended the stairs quickly, trying not to laugh. _Fools._

Sark reached the main floor unscathed. Looking straight ahead, he walked through the lobby as though he had every right to be there, which he didn't. He stopped short as he reached the front doors. The building was in lockdown. Damn it.

A half hour later, Sark strode out the front doors of the building. The lockdown was lifted when the guards realized that the culprit had already escaped. A long line of tourists ran all the way down to the gates. A middle-aged woman with brown hair called out to him as he walked past. "When does this place open?"

"Not for another half hour," Sark answered curtly. He brushed on by the woman, thinking about what had just transpired. He had just given Sydney an opportunity to stop his plan, something he hadn't really intended on doing in the first place, and she had refused him.

Just as well, Arvin Sloane has been dying to work with him anyway. Now he would get his chance, thanks to Sydney. And with that final thought, Sark turned onto the sidewalk and blended into the crowd.


	5. Dreams and Reality

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Sark and his men moved swiftly and easily through the dark forest. They were trailing Sydney and her C.I.A. team. He noted, with some irritation, that Sydney's handler, Michael Vaughn, was with her. Sark was suddenly reminded of the disturbing dream he had had a few nights ago…

_Sark stood on the shore of an enormous lake, staring out at the water. The water was so dark that it was nearly black. A flailing figure in the middle of the lake caught his attention. It was __Sydney__, and she clearly needed rescuing. _

_ Michael Vaughn appeared at his side. __Sark__ turned to look at him. "Aren't you going to help her?" He asked. Vaughn glanced at him and shivered, running his hands up and down his arms. "No way, it's too cold for me," he said with a friendly smile, apparently unconcerned that the woman he loved was drowning._

_ Without a word, __Sark__ dove into the inky water and swam out to where __Sydney__ was floundering. He held out a hand, which __Sydney__ promptly grabbed and used to hold herself up. She looked up at him. "Oh, hello __Sark__," she said sweetly. "How are you?" She obviously didn't care that she had nearly drowned._

_Sark__ looked at her in disbelief. "Can't you swim?" He asked._

_Sydney__ giggled. "Silly boy, you know that pregnant women can't swim." _

_Sark__'s mouth fell open. "You're pregnant?"_

_Sydney__ regarded him fondly. "Of course I am." She leaned in closer. "By my handler, you know," she said in a conspiratorial whisper. _

_Sydney__ suddenly noticed the stricken expression on __Sark__'s face. "What's the matter?" She asked. __Sark__ remained silent. A dawning realization showed on __Sydney__'s face. "Oh, that's right. You're in love with me, aren't you?" She sounded genuinely sorry for him._

_Sark__ locked eyes with __Sydney__. "You stole my heart." His voice was raspy, not his own. __Sydney__ was looking very nervous. _

_ Her eyes shifted from side to side. "Well that's really not my fault, is it?" Now she sounded scared. _

_ The water around them had faded slowly from black to red. Blood red._

_ Sark continued to look at Sydney, a pained, yet resolute, look upon his face. "You can't keep it," he said. "I'm sorry." After speaking those words, __Sark__ jerked his arm away from __Sydney__. She looked horrified, as though she knew what he was about to do. _

_ "Wait, we ca—" __Sark__ cut her off by placing his right hand on top of her head. He looked at her for a second, and then pressed down hard. __Sydney__ disappeared under the scarlet water. _

_Sark__ swam slowly back to shore. Vaughn was still standing there, rocking back and forth on his feet and humming. Vaughn grinned cheerfully at him. "You look awfully pale. Something wrong?" Clearly, he was unaffected by __Sydney__'s death._

_ Sark stared at him blankly, and answered in a dead, hollow voice. "She's gone," he said. "And she isn't coming back." Then he turned and walked away._

Sark had woken up in a cold sweat. His shirt, pants, and sheets were soaked. The dream had been so vivid and unsettling that he had been unable to go back to sleep. Instead he had gone to his library, chosen a book at random, and read for the remainder of the night.

Sark forced his mind back to reality. It's not like he wanted to remember that dream, anyway. Up ahead of him, Sydney and her precious handler had stopped and headed back in his direction. Sydney was walking backwards, so he couldn't see the dazed and confused expression on her face.

Her loyal handler was busy giving orders, obviously trying to take control of the situation. Sark stepped away from his hiding place and walked towards the couple. It's not like Mr. Observant would notice him, anyway.

Michael Vaughn's whiny voice reached Sark's ears. "Secure the perimeter until---"

Sark, who was now only a foot away from the two agents, had already had enough of the Not-So-Skillful spy. He stepped forward and struck Michael Vaughn brutally across the face, knocking him to the ground.

Satisfaction welled up in Sark's chest_. That was for Denpasar,_ he informed Vaughn silently. Of course, he didn't know for sure that it had been Vaughn who had knocked him out, but he had been wanting a reason to hit the man anyway.

Sydney had whirled around to face him, and Sark immediately noticed how teary her eyes looked. He pushed down the feeling of concern in his chest. _Who the hell cares if she's upset? I certainly don't. Let Vaughn take care of her. _

"Your efficient reconnaissance work saved us the trouble of using our GPS. Thank you." Sark said, while silently rebuking himself. _Was that the best you could do?_ A voice asked mockingly. _It was witty, shut-up._

Sydney's useless partner slowly stood up. _Shame.__ I had hoped he was down for the count. _

Sark turned and nodded to his small team of men. "Go inside and recover the operations manual," he ordered. His men obediently moved towards the house. For some reason, Sydney looked horrified as she watched. _Does losing the manual bother her that badly?_ Sark wondered.

He turned his attention back to Sydney, wanting to needle her a bit. "You escaped tactical directorate after lockdown. Clearly, you had no trouble decoding the map." Sark paused, feeling a little unsure. If Sydney's face was any indication, she wasn't hearing a word he said.

Sark frowned a little and continued. "I'm surprised Klaus Richter was so willing to reveal his secrets." Sydney still wasn't responding to his banter. "If I didn't know any better, I'd guess you had another source_." Like your mother, perhaps?_ He searched for any kind of reaction to his words. He looked for a raised eyebrow, a curled lip, an impatient glance, anything. He got nothing.

A thunderous explosion suddenly rocked the ground, knocking Sark clean off his feet. He raised his head, a little disoriented. The building in front of him was engulfed by leaping orange flames and black smoke. _What the hell?_ Sark thought, climbing to his feet.

Sydney and her handler had also been thrown to the ground. Sark could see part of Sydney's face. She looked sickened, despite the fact that it had been his men, and not hers that had been blown to bits.

No time to ponder that now. Sark stepped back and quickly merged into the black shadows. He glanced at the burning building. There was no way any of his men survived that. Pity. Now he'd have to hire more people

Then he turned and calmly walked away.


	6. Priceless Pawn and Realizations

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Sark stood in the control room of his decontamination center. He was supposed to be listening to the scientists as they updated him on the virus situation, but alas, his mind was on other things. Lately, he had been feeling restless, which was nothing unusual in itself. He was always restless. Recently, though, his agitation had increased ten fold. He had searched for a suitable explanation, but had failed to find one. It certainly wasn't because he was about to put Irina's plan into effect. No, that couldn't be it.

As he thought about the plan, Sark was reminded that he had yet to find a way to get to Sloane. That was the only kink that still needed to be worked out. After that was taken care of, the plan was a go.

The scientists were still talking, but Sark wasn't hearing a word they said. One of his employees across the room suddenly ripped off his headset and came striding over to him. "Sir, someone has accessed the decontamination room."

Sark looked up from the sheets of information that were spread across the large table in front of him_. Superb_, he thought, glad for the distraction. _I do hope it's someone I know._

Some of his men were shooting at the unknown assailant in the hallway. Wanting to see what was going on, Sark moved quickly towards the gunfire. He suddenly caught sight of their target. It was a person dressed in one of the yellow suits worn by his own employees. Sark winced inwardly as the intruder bashed one of his men in the head with a fire extinguisher. They certainly got points for creativity.

The rest of his men were knocked out in a couple of seconds. The intruder turned and Sark caught a glimpse of brown hair. His heart lurched (but only because he was surprised, of course). Could it be that his favorite double agent had come to pay him a visit?

This was certainly an unexpected occurrence. It was delightfully unexpected, actually. And it would appear that the perfect pawn for his little plan had just wandered quite willingly into his midst. Sark followed Sydney's progress as she tried to find an exit. She was heading straight for his favorite room in the entire place: The acid room. He made his way to a spot where he could see down into the room. The green light over him made him feel like a cheesy villain in a bad movie. And it was probably doing nothing good for his complexion, either.

Sydney had just figured out that she was trapped. She looked around wildly for a few seconds; then she spotted him standing over her_. Ms. Bristow looks quite angry with me,_ Sark noted, pleased. _And I doubt she's going to be much happier with me when I threaten to melt her. _

_Perhaps I should speak first. Remember to be polite and professional_. "Agent Bristow," he began. "Those pipes are rigged to disperse ammonia flurochloride." Sydney's angry and bewildered expression hadn't change. She looked like she wanted to throttle him. "Wonderful for decontaminating metals and concrete. Not so good on organic materials, such as your suit. Or you skin." _And you have such lovely skin, my dear…My dear? Where did that come from? _

Sydney cocked the gun in her hand and peppered the glass in front of him with bullets. He closed his eyes and waited for her to stop. Thank God he had invested in bulletproof glass. After a few seconds, it was silent again. Sark opened his eyes slowly. Sydney looked disappointed that she had failed in pumping him full of bullets. Sark smiled to himself. _What a funny girl. _

He looked down at her, almost gently. "You and I, we're destined to work together." Sydney's eyes widened slightly. "I truly believe that." There was no harm in telling the truth once in a while, so long as you were certain you would be labeled as a liar anyway.

Sark reached over and hit a small red button. Ammonia came pouring out of the sprinklers on the ceiling, showering Sydney. Wanting to get this part over with as soon as possible, he went on. "Of course, any future collaboration requires my turning the sprinkler system off."

If she didn't cave in another 30 seconds, he would shut it off. He wasn't really going to let her melt right in front of his eyes; Irina would rip him to shreds. It was only a bluff. He was good at bluffing. Damn good.

Sydney was examining her suit, which was indeed disintegrating at an alarming rate. She looked up at him. Sark forced his trademark smirk on his face. If he was to be successful in his bluff, he must look indifferent to her situation.

"Notice your suit is already being eaten away. I'd give it another forty seconds." A look of panic had crept into Sydney's eyes. She was scared. "I could use your help. I need access to Arvin Sloane."

"Why?" Sydney asked. Her suit wouldn't hold up much longer. Probably best to give her a simple answer.

"Because I intend to kill him." Not right away, of course, but…eventually that would be the result.

Sydney now looked torn. Sark had by now figured out why she was here, and for whom. How far would she go for her beloved handler?

She finally answered him. "I can get you to Sloane, but only if you promise to let me keep the antidote." So she would kill for him. Interesting. Sark felt a surge of irritation. What was it to him if Sydney loved Michael Vaughn, (or the Not-So-Skillful spy, as he had dubbed him in Madagascar)? Nothing, that's what.

Sark wanted to rip the vial from her hands and hurl it against the wall. But instead, he forced down his impulses. "No. Sloane first. Then you'll get back your precious antidote." _For your precious handler_, he added silently. With any luck, it would be too late before Michael Vaughn got his antidote anyway.

Sydney nodded, defeated. They had a deal.

Sark immediately shut off the sprinklers. Sydney didn't move a muscle. Sark then ordered Sydney to strip. She had looked more shocked than angry at his command. He was then forced to explain to her why it was necessary. She acquiesced.

Sark personally escorted her to the decontamination room. Sydney undressed quickly, as though she was alone in the room. Sark let his eyes sweep leisurely over her body. He admired it as one might admire a beautiful vase.

Except beautiful vases did not usually make him blush.

He stayed until things had gotten underway. Then he had snatched up the serum and abruptly left the room. There was absolutely no reason for him to stay, and he didn't want Sydney to think he was a voyeur.

When Sark returned to the room twenty minutes later, Sydney had been washed and dried quite thoroughly, and she was fully clothed. Too bad. Sark gave her more details and contact information. He walked Sydney to the door, and watched as she walked away. He had offered her a ride to the airport, but she had stubbornly refused.

At one point, Sydney had turned around, only to find him still there, watching her departure. She had looked surprised, confused, and troubled, as though she couldn't believe she had just made a deal with him of all people. Sark couldn't say that he blamed her.

ooooooooooooooo

It did not occur to Julian Sark that he was attracted to Sydney Bristow until seven and a half hours after she had left the center. He lay in bed, remembering her face as she had looked up at him in the acid room. He could still see her eyes, her nose, that incredible mouth.

When Sark realized that he wanted her, the thought hit him like a kick to the stomach. He wanted Sydney Bristow. He wanted the enemy. Of course, the idea of wanting Sydney was bothersome, but it was just a harmless fantasy. Or so he told himself.

It did not occur to Julian Sark until many months later that he was actually in love with Sydney Bristow. That his harmless fantasy had morphed into something dangerous along the way.

When Sark realized that he loved her, the thought hit him like a hammer to the head. He was in love with Sydney Bristow. He was in love with the enemy. Of course, the idea of loving Sydney was distasteful, but it was just a minor glitch. Nothing to be worried about. Or so he told himself.


	7. Destiny at Work

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Sark sat in the back of his car, listening intently as Sydney made her way onto the grounds of the large Japanese estate. She was dressed as a geisha, and Sark was enjoying the outfit immensely. Earlier, when they had been going over the plan, Sydney had been so preoccupied that Sark had felt compelled to tease her about it, offering to let her keep the make-up as it was so becoming to her. His baiting got no response except a cold glare.

Sark thought he knew why Sydney was practically ignoring him, aside from the whole, 'evil assassin' thing. It had probably upset her that he had seen her…unclothed, to put it nicely. At the time, Sark had felt like he was seeing the real Sydney, in a way that few people ever had. There was no wig, there was no seductive outfit, there was no clown make-up. There was just Sydney, and that steely look in her eyes. It was Sydney at her most primitive level, and he had liked it.

Sark was grateful when a voice interrupted his wayward thoughts. "I'm on the grounds," Sydney murmured into the transmitter.

"Good. My associate just arrived to meet your father," Sark said. His eyes followed her until she was out of sight. He wanted to reassure her somehow, not that she needed it. "Good luck, Sydney."

Sydney replied swiftly. "I don't need you to wish me luck, you son of a bitch."

But goodness, she was testy today. He smiled, knowing she couldn't see him. "That's a wonderful attitude." He loved shaking her up. Or maybe he just loved her.

There was silence for a minute. Then Sark heard a deep voice address Sydney. She answered him in Japanese. The next few seconds were full of action. Sark couldn't see what was going on, but the sounds coming from the transmitter indicated that Sydney was engaged in battle.

The noises ceased shortly. Sark was focusing on his transmitter. Why didn't she let him no she was all right? It would be a professional courtesy.

Sydney's soft tones came through the transmitter. She was in the room with Sloane and was asking the other geisha to go check on something. Now Sydney was presumably alone in the room with Sloane.

Sark tried to imagine what the scene might look like. Sloane would obviously be lying on a table, most likely with his shirt off. He grimaced inwardly. Sydney would be forced to touch Sloane, a man Sark knew she hated with a passion. He wondered briefly if she would be tempted to kill him herself, with her bare hands. He would have been.

But Sark was not planning on killing Sloane today, or even tomorrow. Sadly, it would be quite awhile before he was allowed to lay his hands on him. Sydney would be very disappointed. And shocked. He couldn't wait to see her reaction when she found out they would be working together for real.

Sark listened as Sloane talked to Sydney, thinking she did not understand English. "I loved my wife too. But I had to take action." Sark wished he could see the expression on Sydney's face at that very moment. But he could only imagine.

A minute later, Sark heard a low moan through the transmitter. "No…" Sydney had obviously stuck Sloane with the pin he had given her. Sark could hear Sydney's footsteps as she ran outside. She cried out for help in Japanese.

Sark couldn't contain himself any longer. She was just too amazing. "You are so good, do you know that?" His own voice sounded foreign to his ears, owing no doubt to the excitement it held. He regretted letting that little compliment slip out, as it was so obviously sincere. Maybe she hadn't heard him in all the excitement…

Sark spoke into his walkie-talkie. "Send the ambulance." He exhaled loudly. Wow.

After giving the order, Sark quickly made is way over to the building that Sloane had been in. Sydney was standing out front, watching as his men loaded Sloane into the ambulance. He walked up behind her and stopped. She didn't move a muscle. It was almost like she was in a trance.

Sark leaned closer to her and spoke. "It went well." He paused, considering his next words. "Look, when I said 'Good Luck' before, I wasn't mocking you." As he spoke, her eyes lost their glazed look. She turned towards him.

"Call in for your man to release the serum," she said, her voice devoid of any emotion. Obviously, she did not want to hear anything he might have to say. She was only concerned about their business deal, and he couldn't say that he blamed her. Perhaps her opinion of him might improve someday, but it was not going to be anytime soon. In fact, things were going to get a whole lot worse before they got better. Guaranteed.

It was time to hold up his end of the bargain. A small part of him had hoped she would fail just so he wouldn't have to give her the antidote. But a deal was a deal, and despite everything, he was a man of his word. When it was convenient, anyway. But with any luck, it would be too late for Michael Vaughn.

Sark pulled out his phone and punched in a number. As soon as he heard it pick up he said, "Hand over the antidote. The security code is 10-11-92." He hung up without waiting for a reply.

He climbed into the back of the ambulance and faced Sydney, who was still rooted to the spot. Sark looked her straight in the eyes. "It was nice working with you," he said, not taking his eyes off of her. It was hard to tell what she was thinking under all that make-up.

The doors to the ambulance were closed, but still Sark held her gaze. Sydney stood there looking back at him until the ambulance disappeared from sight. Sark finally leaned back and closed his eyes, mentally preparing himself for what would happen once Sloane was revived.


	8. No Turning Back

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

As soon as Sark felt that the ambulance was in a fairly remote spot, he ordered the driver to stop. He leaned back and thought about what he was about to do. There would be no turning back after this. He would be right in the middle of everything, and he would no doubt be causing the deaths of many people. But it had to be done. Unless he went ahead and actually killed Sloane now…But no, there could be no deviation from the plan.

Sark administered a shot into Sloane's arm. Moments later, Sloane stirred and sat up groggily. Sark gave him a minute to adjust to his surroundings before proceeding. Sloane was looking at him warily.

"Here's the situation," Sark began without preamble. "Rambaldi's true aim is a puzzle. I have certain pieces, you have others. We'll never solve his mystery, but together—together we cannot fail." Sark tried to gauge Sloane's reaction. He didn't look angry, or even shocked. He looked like he was seriously considering the offer.

"How do I know you have anything real to offer?" Sloane asked. Good question.

_Last chance to kill him…_

"I can offer myself in two ways," Sark began, quashing the protesting voice. "The first is obvious. I intercepted communications indicating that there would be an assassination attempt on your life. Now as this conversation proves, I have prevented that." _But only temporarily_, Sark added silently. _One day, I really will kill you._

"How do I know that you didn't plan the attempt in the first place?" Sloane asked. He was asking all of the right questions, but Sark was prepared nonetheless.

"Which brings me to my second piece of information," Sark replied smoothly. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded up piece of paper. He handed it to Sloane without hesitation.

Sloane read it and looked back up at him, sharply. Inside, Sark felt somewhat deflated. He knew that by handing Sloane that piece of paper, he had just sealed the deal. There was definitely no going back now.

ooooooooooooooo

After Sark's little chat with Sloane in the ambulance, he had been taken to the Alliance as Sloane's "guest." He had been passed around from member to member all night. He offered information to them, as a token of good will. They had accepted it, and he was now officially recognized as Sloane's new partner.

Today was to be his first unofficial day on the job. He hadn't expected infiltrating the Alliance and getting close to Sloane to be this easy. And yet here he was, sitting out on the balcony of his new apartment, getting ready to leave for work. He marveled at how good things were going.

And then he thought of Irina. He wondered what she was doing at that exact moment and he wondered what, or who, she was thinking about. It had been too long since he had seen her, talked to her, and he missed her. At least, he missed her as much as he could miss anybody. He had never been able to feel any emotion completely, and he probably never would. There would always be a part of him that was untouchable and unattainable, and he liked it that way. It kept him safe.

Sark drove to the Credit Dauphine building. He swiped his new card and parked in the underground garage. It was dark and depressing, even for a parking garage. After being scanned, Sark made his way to Sloane's office, trying to be inconspicuous. Sloane met him on the way there. They exchanged greetings (a mere formality) and Sark followed him into one of the large conference rooms. Sark listened half-heartedly as Sloane briefed him on what he should say, or do, should anyone bother him.

They spotted Sydney at the same time, as she was making her way across the room. She looked nervously at Sloane's office, but didn't stop. She was coming their way.

Sloane stepped out to meet her. "Sydney," he said warmly. "Good morning."

Sark almost laughed at the shocked look that flitted ever so briefly across her features. He wondered if Sloane had noticed it. "Good morning," she returned with a weak smile. She hadn't noticed him yet.

Sloane turned in his direction, motioning to Sydney. "You know Mr. Sark," he said.

Sydney's eyes flew up to meet his. A thousand different emotions swirled through her eyes. Then they became cold and professional. Sark stepped forward, remembering his manners. "I don't think we've ever been officially introduced," he said politely. Sydney was silent.

Sloane addressed Sydney. "Mr. Sark is now cooperating with us in our ongoing search for Derevko and the remains of her company."

"He's cooperating," Sydney stated, staring at Sloane. Sark could practically see the levers and gears turning in her head. Poor thing was confused, it seemed.

"This is a strategic alliance, Agent Bristow," Sloane said, glancing back at Sark. "Debrief him. Take down everything he knows about Derevko and we'll see and decide about what goes on after that." That said, Sloane turned and walked out of the room, leaving the two alone.

Sydney did not look pleased at the fact that she was the one chosen to debrief him. Sark decided to try to put her at ease. "Agent Bristow, working with you--" She gestured for him to be quiet, motioning with her head. She was worried about bugs. What, did she think he was an amateur?

"Don't worry. I pulsed the bugs. We can reminisce." He raised an eyebrow and gave her a charming smile. She didn't go for it. Instead, she began interrogating him.

"What are you doing here?" She demanded. "How?" _Okay, so we'll reminisce later_.

"I took the ambulance to a remote location. And then I revived him." Sark then relayed the contents of his conversation with Sloane to Sydney, who was looking extremely guarded. When he got to the part with the piece of paper, she broke in.

"What was on the piece of paper?" She asked_. Isn't that the million-dollar question? Don't worry __Sydney__ it's only something that will undoubtedly cause a tremendous amount of trouble in the future. Nothing to worry your pretty little head over. _

Sark tilted his head. "I'm afraid that's need-to-know," he said confidentially.

Sydney was not happy with his answer, and her displeasure was evident as she debriefed him. She kept throwing him annoyed looks when she thought he wasn't looking. But he noticed every glance she sent his way, every movement of her body. She brushed her hair behind one ear. The simple gesture reminded Sark of Irina. He wondered what Irina was doing at that exact moment and he wondered what, or who, she was thinking about…


	9. Colleague Confronted

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Warm air ruffled and tickled Sark's hair as he sped down the winding road in his black convertible. It was a beautiful morning, and he was in no real hurry to get to work. Sloane could wait.

Sark tilted his head back slightly, enjoying the sensation of the sun of his face. Mornings had always been his favorite part of the day. They gave the illusion of a fresh start, even if one was not possible. They reminded him that perhaps in the future, he would be free to do whatever he wanted.

Sark took in the scenery as it flashed by. There was so much to look at. He saw birds flitting from tree to tree. He saw wispy clouds drifting across the sky. He saw an atrocious red vehicle on his tail…What!

It took Sark less than a second to realize who was following him. It was Sydney in her horrible Land Rover, and she obviously wanted something. Maybe if he pretended she wasn't there, she would go away.

She pulled up alongside him and glared over at him. No such luck. Sark briefly considered running her off the road, as punishment for intruding on his solitude. _Teach her to chase me down._ Then he remembered that she was in a much bigger vehicle than he was_. Might as well humor the girl, even though I already know what she wants_, he thought.

Sark pulled off in a dusty clearing on the side of the road. Sydney stopped next to him and got out. Sark followed her example and stepped out of his car. He leaned against the door and watched as Sydney came around to the other side to face him. She just stood there glowering at him. Sark got the feeling that if he didn't speak up, she would just stare at him all day.

"Are you here to wish me luck being my first day on the job, or are you convinced I might reveal to Sloane that you conspired to kill him?" He asked brazenly, wanting to cut right to the chase. He didn't really feel like dealing with her right now.

Sark knew that if Sydney removed the sunglasses she was wearing, her eyes would be angry. "I'm here to remind you what I hope is obvious, but I don't want to overestimate your intelligence. If you burn me, I burn you." Sark bit the inside of his cheek, annoyed. _You don't want to underestimate my intelligence, either. But I think you already have._

"Sydney, I couldn't reveal to Sloane that you conspired to kill him without also revealing my involvement. Of course, I never had any intention of going through with it. I simply needed to gain his trust."

Sark made his voice sound sincere and convincing. But what he really felt was irritation bordering on anger. Sydney insisted on underestimating him every chance she got, despite evidence that proved he was as good at his job as she was at hers. He forced the feeling aside. If Sydney wanted to disillusion herself, that was fine with him. He didn't have to prove anything to her.

Sydney crossed her arms. "You know what I think?" She asked. _Do tell_, Sark thought, somewhat bitterly. _I'm just dying of curiosity. _

"You're just a dog looking for a new master," she said disdainfully, looking him up and down. Sark bristled inwardly at the statement, and then smiled. _My, my, my, aren't we defensive today?_

He arranged his facial features into what he hoped was a look of reassurance. "No need to worry, Sydney, we're colleagues now," he said coyly. Sydney gave him a final glare before walking back to her vehicle. She opened her door.

"I'll see you at the office," he called to her. Instead of answering him, she got in and spun out onto the road, leaving him in a cloud of dust.

Sark stood there for a minute, waiting for the dust to settle around him. Then he got back into his car and pulled back out onto the road. He drove much faster than he had earlier, accelerating around turns and ignoring his brakes. The morning was ruined for him now; there was no use in delaying his arrival at SD-6.

While Sark considered the run-in a success, (he had gotten to Sydney, after all), he was still bothered by it. He shouldn't care that Sydney had misjudged him so badly, but he did. If she knew what he had to deal with every day, and what he was truly capable of, Sark had a feeling that she wouldn't be so quick to write him off. But she didn't know, and she probably never would.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark was dreading the upcoming meeting he had with Sloane & Company. He did not want to be introduced. He did not want to be civil. He did not want to talk. He just wanted to be left alone with his plans. It was easier that way.

The meeting was scheduled to start in about five minutes, and it would not do to be late. Sark made his way to the conference room and chose a seat at the far end. Sydney and Dixon were already there, talking softly. They stopped abruptly when he entered the room. Sydney gave him an icy look while Dixon looked unsettled by his presence.

Sloane and Jack entered the room a minute later. Jack took a seat opposite Sydney and the meeting began.

"As you know, Mr. Sark surrendered to us last week," Sloane said, glancing at Sark. "After an extensive debriefing with McCullough, we've concluded he can provide us with credible intel. Enough, in fact, to warrant an immunity deal in exchange for his cooperation." His words seemed to shock Dixon, who immediately objected.

"Sir, I believe this decision is a critical mistake," he said_. Very true_, thought Sark, _it is a critical mistake_. "This man has murdered hundreds of people for profit. We should not set the precedent of granting immunity to a terrorist no matter what he says he has to offer."

_How many people have I killed?_ Sark wondered idly. He had lost count over the years, but he did know that the number of casualties would astonish everyone in the room, himself included, had it been known.

Sloane was trying his best to look concerned about Dixon's statement. "Yes, well, I understand your frustration, Agent Dixon, but I believe that Sark's cooperation will save more lives than he's taken." _I wouldn't count on that one, Boss_.

Sydney decided to throw in her two cents worth. "I'm with Dixon on this," she said righteously. Her tone reminded Sark of their run-in that morning, and what she had said then. What gave her the right to judge him? What gave any of them the right?

Sloane regarded Dixon and Sydney gravely. "We have developed a strategy to address your concerns. Jack," he said, passing control to the other man.

Jack looked as serious and blank as ever as he told them the strategy. "In order to maintain Sark's value as an informant, his contacts must not be aware that he's turned himself in." Jack turned to meet Sark's gaze. Sark was secretly pleased with this. Jack was the only one in the room who could look him straight in the eye. Both Sydney and Dixon were ignoring him, and even Sloane wouldn't hold his gaze for very long.

Jack continued. "Beginning today, whenever Sark leaves this office a security section team will double as his private detail to ensure that he doesn't violate his agreement with us." _How delightful. I get my own private henchmen. This day just keeps getting better and better. _

The door to the conference room suddenly burst open. A short, fast-talking man came bustling into the room. "I, uh, I'm sorry I'm late," he rambled as he made his way to an empty chair.

Sloane caught Sark's eye and motioned to the bumbling man. "Marshall Flinkman, technical operations officer."

Marshall seemed to notice him for the first time. He froze next to his seat. "Hi. Welcome. Don't kill me."

Later, when Sark reviewed the meeting in his mind, a wry smile would touch his lips when he remembered Marshall's words. He had obviously been petrified by Sark's presence, and the funny thing was, he had no reason to be. Sark had no intention of harming one hair on his head. It was better that Marshall didn't know that, though.

It was now time for Sark to give the group his speech that he had prepared beforehand. He leaned forward and tried to make eye contact with everyone in the room. "Look, I understand that none of you are inclined to believe a word I say but I assure you, it's not in my best interest to betray you." _For now anyway_. "You've given me an opportunity of a lifetime, and I don't intend to squander it," he finished, his eyes resting on Sloane.

Sark had always enjoyed playing with words, saying one thing and meaning another. Most people never caught the double meanings he would slip into their conversation. It was a game he played with unwitting dupes whenever he was bored with them, which was the majority of the time.

He wondered if Sloane would catch onto his last statement. Probably not. Sloane, like Sydney, was quick to underestimate him. After all, he was just another one of Irina's lackeys, was he not? No matter, Sloane would realize his unfortunate error in the future, but by that time it would be too late.

Nobody said anything following his speech. Marshall kept sneaking little peeks at him whenever he thought Sark wasn't looking. Sark almost felt like an animal at the zoo, a dangerous specimen on display for all to see. Dixon was still pretending he didn't exist, but Sydney met his eyes a few times. Jack neither avoided his gaze nor sought it out.

Sloane flipped a switch and a picture came up onto every computer screen in the room. "Zoran Sokolov," he said. "A freelance mercenary who's had extensive dealings with Mr. Sark." Sark smirked. It would appear that he had been promoted to Mr. Sark. Lovely.

Sloane nodded to him, and Sark spoke, picking up where Sloane had left off. "Yes, he frequently offers me the chance to purchase intelligence before he brings it to the black market. Recently he asked me if I'd be interested in obtaining a set of communication codes used by Uzbekistan's ground forces along the border." _And of course I told him yes._

Sloane took control again. "If we don't obtain those codes Sokolov will sell them to extremist rebels hiding in neighboring Tajikistan. With those codes, they can track Uzbek troop movements and plan terrorist attacks. This would gravely destabilize our allies in Asia."

_Like you care about stability in Asia_, Sark thought absently. "Sydney, you and Dixon will make contact with this Sokolov. Posing as Sark's associates, you will purchase the codes and bring them here," he ordered. The two did not look thrilled with their assignment.

Sark noticed that Sydney was clenching her hands so tight that her knuckles were white. You would think that she would know better than that, he thought. It's a bit of a giveaway.

The meeting ended shortly thereafter, (thank God), and Sydney and Dixon were the first ones out of the room. Sloane and Jack exited together, talking quietly. The technical guy, Marshall, was gathering his things, not realizing that he was alone with "the big bad wolf." When he finally did look up, he saw that everyone else had already left. He looked at Sark, horrified. Then he scrambled quickly out of the room, clutching his things against his chest. Sark could've sworn he heard a whimper.

Sark stood slowly as soon as he was alone in the room. He rolled his neck and felt some of the tightness disappear. Much better. He straightened up, and having nothing better to do, headed for the coffee machine in the far corner.


	10. A Lesson in Torture

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Sark was bored. He had been walking the halls of SD-6 for the past hour and a half, trying to looking important and busy. He glanced down at the thick folder he was carrying with him to reinforce the image. It contained only blank paper, but it looked good. Just another one of his props.

Sloane's office was just ahead, he might as well take a break from his busy schedule of wandering around the building and visit the old man. What harm could that do? It's not like anyone else would talk to him anyway. They wouldn't even look at him if he passed them in the corridors.

Sloane, who was on the phone, saw him coming and motioned him in. Sark stepped in and let the door close behind him with a _swoosh_ He turned to look at the surveillance monitor while he waited for Sloane to finish his phone call. People walked back and forth across the monitor. Some were going to the restrooms, some were going for coffee, some were just stretching their legs. And they were all oblivious to the fact that they were working for a terrorist organization. It was absolutely incredible.

Sark heard Sloane hang up the phone in the background. When Sloane remained silent, he spoke. "I must admit, this is one of the most impressive operations I've seen. Though it is a touch pathetic how so many of them believe they actually work for the CIA." That should get him talking, he thought. One thing he had learned about Arvin Sloane: he didn't take insults from anybody.

"Look at me," Sloane said sternly. Sark obediently turned to face him. "You've offered me a substantial prize to make our partnership worthwhile, but do not think for a second that gives you the right to insult my people."

For being such a monster, Sloane sure was touchy about his people. Could it be that deep, deep, deep down, he felt guilty? No, of course not. Still, it looked like he was going to have to smooth things over. He sighed inwardly. "I apologize."

Sark turned back towards the monitor. It had changed screens, and it now showed a close up of Sydney sitting at her desk. She was reading a report and drinking coffee. He watched as she tucked her hair behind one ear. Looking at her reminded Sark that he had not yet told Sloane of her double agent status, or of their run-in that morning. He should probably get on that immediately.

"I had a run-in with Sydney Bristow this morning. She may be the only one who suspects I haven't in fact turned myself in." Oh yeah, and he still hadn't told Sloane that it was Sydney who had handed him over to be killed. He would get to that later, too.

Sark tore his eyes from the screen and turned back to Sloane, who met his gaze steadily. It looked like he was about to get a lecture. Great.

"I've been a presence in Sydney's life since she was born. Sydney will believe whatever I tell her to," Sloane said, glancing at the monitor. Sark blinked, laughter bubbling up in his throat. He swallowed it down. Sloane would not take kindly to you laughing in his face, he reminded himself. Perhaps you should change the subject.

"And her father?" He asked, trying to sound vaguely concerned. "He must often battle the temptation to tell her the truth about SD-6. I'd hate to see Jack's paternal instincts compromise our objectives. So, for the time being, I wouldn't tell him what those codes are really for." After all, Irina's going to tell him anyway, and you don't need to know that Irina is actually _volunteering_ information to the CIA. It's best that you believe she was captured.

Before Sloane could answer him, the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up. "Yeah?" _How professional. Yeah?_

A few seconds later, Sloane threw him out. "That will be all," he said. Sark was a little miffed. Surely Sloane knew that he would find out what the call was about later anyway.

Oh well, back to strolling through the hallways, his thick folder firmly in hand. He had nothing else to do, since he wasn't actually employed to do paperwork. No, Sloane seemed content to let Sark amble about amusing himself. And sometimes it was amusing.

For instance, after the meeting earlier that day he had gone to get coffee. Marshall Flinkman had had the same idea. When he turned to find Sark right behind him, he had jumped and spilled his coffee on a woman who was walking past at the time. It had taken a considerable amount of control to keep from laughing, or smiling at the least. He had settled for a sneer that had sent Marshall scurrying away.

Perhaps he should pay the nervous techie a visit now. He would no doubt be pleased to see him. Or maybe he could go bother Sydney. That was always good for a kick. In fact, he had a feeling that it was going to become one of his favorite pastimes. He did love witty repartee.

However, after their earlier encounter, Sark had no desire to tease Sydney, or be near her at all. He would just have to find somebody else to terrorize for the time being. He did have a reputation to uphold, after all. He headed towards Marshall's office. Time to make a friend.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark sat in his little office at SD-6, drumming his fingers on the desk. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost hear the song he was "playing" on the surface. It helped to relax him, and right now he needed some relaxing.

In just a few minutes, he would have to call Gerard Cuvee, who was one of the most cunning men he knew. He wasn't looking forward to making the call, but it was something that had to be done regardless.

Sark finished tapping his little melody and reached for his phone. He punched in a number and listened as it rang. It only rang once before it was answered. He asked for Cuvee and was told to wait for a minute. The corner of his mouth curled up in annoyance. He shouldn't have to wait on anybody.

Cuvee finally came to the phone. Sark wasted no time in asking, "Is everything on target?" He already knew the answer. With Sydney, Irina, and possibly Jack in the territory, things were bound to unravel quickly. But that was the plan.

Cuvee's voice was strained as he answered. "We ran into a few problems but, uh..." He trailed off.

_How articulate_, Sark thought, amused. He made his voice hard. "What kind of problems?"  
"We've got it under control. We'll proceed as planned," Cuvee said nervously. Sark could hear the fear in his voice.  
What had happened to the unruly Cuvee of the old days? And who was this idiot in his place? "Then I'll expect your report on the Rambaldi artifact within the hour," Sark said arrogantly, leaving no room for debate. He hung up without hearing Cuvee's reply.

Sark leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes briefly. He wondered how Irina was handling the situation in Kashmir. If Jack had accompanied her, which was probable, things could get very interesting. Sark had always been curious about Jack Bristow, the man Irina had "betrayed." He was a gifted agent, obviously, and talented in many different areas. One might even call him brilliant. In fact, Sark might even go so far to say that Jack was Irina's equal. But that was debatable.

Sark opened his eyes and let them rove over his little office. He suspected it use to be a supply closet because of its size and out of the way location. But Sloane had grown tired of Sark's escapades throughout the building, and had given him this cozy "office" in the hopes that it would keep Sark out of the other employees' way. After all, frightened employees are not productive employees.

Since it would not be wise to provoke Sloane this early in the game, Sark had tried to cut down on his visits to other parts of the building. But he so missed his friends. He was positive that Marshall Flinkman was missing him terribly. No doubt about it. Who wouldn't miss him? He was a good conversationalist, had exquisite manners, and was always considerate of the feelings of others. Well, for the most part anyway.

But this little office couldn't hold him forever. It wouldn't be so bad if he had something to do besides stare at the wall. A book would help to pass the time, but Sark had a feeling that if someone happened to see him reading a book, his reputation would be ruined. Big, bad assassins did not sit around reading philosophy books and novels, did they? Oh well.

Sark stood and stretched. He could always go have another chat with Sloane. But was he really that desperate for something to do? He considered for a minute. No, he wasn't.

He looked at his watch, 3:30 p.m. Technically, he wasn't allowed to leave until Sloane dismissed him for the day, which was usually around six or seven. But he wasn't really in the mood to hang around, and he was sure that Sloane would never miss him.

Sark shrugged on his jacket and straightened his tie. He stuffed the folder with blank paper into his briefcase along with a few other documents and strode out the door.

He walked swiftly down the hall, trying his best to look intimidating. It wasn't hard to do. He slowed down as he passed Marshall's office and glanced in. Marshall was working on his pop-up books again. Sark had seen them the last time he had been in Marshall's office. They were funny.

It wouldn't hurt to pay Marshall a quick visit, would it? And it would be rude to leave without saying good-bye, wouldn't it? Well that settled it. Of the many things he was, rude was not one of them. He knocked softly on the doorframe and stepped into the room. Perhaps this time Marshall would get around to showing him his stamp collection.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark sensed something was wrong the second he stepped into SD-6. Sloane was not in his office, for one, and two men wearing black suits were quickly bearing down on him. _Bloody hell._

They asked him, quite politely, if he would mind coming with them. He wanted to say that yes, as a matter of fact he did mind, but he didn't. Instead, he acquiesced and followed them out of the main room. Once they were out of the sight of the employees, one grabbed him from behind and slammed him into the wall. The other snapped on a pair of handcuffs. This did not bode well for him.

Sark was then frog marched down to one of the interrogation rooms. Sloane was already there. He was standing in a corner, arms folded, obviously trying to look sinister. It was sad, really.

"What is this!" Sark demanded, outraged. "We have an arrangement!"

Sloane regarded him coldly. "Yes. One you failed to live up to." He stepped back and watched as the two security guards strapped Sark securely into a chair. Then they snapped a strap over his head and under his chin. This did not bode well for him at all.

Sloane was advancing upon him, looking as though he might pounce. "Our operation in Kashmir was a waste of SD-6 resources." _Yes, I suppose that's true. But isn't this going a bit too far?_

The two guards were positioned on either side of Sark's head. They pried open his mouth and placed a glass ball in the center. Sark used his tongue to push the ball to the right side of his mouth. It wedged between his cheek and teeth.

Sloane leaned in close, his eyes taking on a maniacal gleam. "We acquired nothing."

The glass ball shifted slightly towards the back of Sark's mouth, causing him to gag. Sloane stepped away from the chair and clasped his hands behind his back. "So my question is, have you betrayed me or are you simply incompetent?"

Sark let his eyes roll to the ceiling, marveling silently at the irony. Here was a man who had two double agents running around right under his nose, and he had the nerve to accuse him of being incompetent. Sark would've laughed, had a glass ball not been choking him.

Sloane moved to the side of Sark's chair. "This interrogation technique was developed by the Khmer Rouge," he said. _Absolutely fascinating_. _Now if you wouldn't mind removing this ball from my mouth… _

"Minimizes bruising on political prisoners when they allowed them to be photographed. You see, if I pull this just a little harder…" Sloane yanked on the strap under Sark's chin. The ball was crushed tighter between his cheek and tongue. _Son of a bitch…_

" ...the glass will break. And I do not want to do that. So tell me, do you think that we were unlucky on our first venture together or do you have another plan that you want to tell me about?" _Not particularly…no_. Sloane released his hold on the strap. The pressure inside his mouth eased a little.

Sark let out a low groan, hoping Sloane would take that as a sign of cooperation. One of the men held a pan in front of his mouth. He spit out the ball, hoping he wasn't drooling. He liked this suit.

Sark let his tongue massage the inside of his cheek before answering Sloane. "I didn't betray you," he said earnestly. "We agreed to combine our efforts. I swear to you, that's still my intent!" _Lie. Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie_, a voice in his head sang out.

"Then tell me what went wrong in Kashmir," Sloane said. _Well sir, I'm afraid I can't do that. Although you'd do better to ask Jack or Sydney the same question. _

Sloane narrowed his eyes as he waited for Sark to speak. He was still trying to be menacing. Sark made a mental note to give Sloane a few pointers on the fine art of interrogation/torture in the future. Perhaps it would do better to show him, though…

Sark fought back a smirk and let a note of panic creep into his voice. "The Indian western command carried out an air strike on the PRF prison. The Rambaldi artifact was destroyed." _Yes, and isn't that a shame?_

"My contact in the region, Gerard Cuvee, mistakenly believes I tipped the Indian authorities off." _Okay, so maybe not so mistakenly…_ "With all due respect sir, could the leak have come from this office?" _Just a little food for thought._

Sark held his breath and waited for Sloane's answer. Sloane was gazing off into space, a thoughtful expression on his face. Then, without a word he turned and left the room. Sark was promptly released from the chair.

He wanted to strap both the guards in the chair and torture them with the glass ball, but that probably wouldn't go over very well with Sloane. Of course, if Sloane complained, Sark could always arrange for him to join in the fun. The thought cheered him. Sark glared frostily at the guards and left, having decided against retribution. Perhaps that would come another time.

Sark was nearly to his office when he realized that his briefcase was still in the main room. He had laid it down before following the guards.

Sark sighed and turned back. He had better go retrieve it before someone else did. It had very important things in there. Not only did he have his "important" folder in it, but today he had brought his laptop as well. He had hoped that Marshall might find him a few games to play on it to relieve his boredom. It wasn't as good as a book, but nobody besides Marshall would know he was playing games on it, so it would help to look busy and important anyway.

Sark reached the main room and let his eyes sweep the room. His briefcase was still sitting next to the wall. Excellent. Now all he had to do was find his friend Marshall.


	11. City of Love

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Sark made his way to the large conference room for another SD-6 briefing. He didn't get to attend them very often, but he enjoyed them very much when he did. Of course, he wasn't really interested in anything Sloane had to say, but he dearly loved to irritate Sydney. He would sit across from her and just stare at her, partly because she was the only decent thing to look at in the room and partly because he knew it irked her. It made him smile inside.

Jack nodded to him as he took a seat at the end of the table. Sydney ignored him, as usual. It was surprising, though, how Jack was reacting to him. He was civil to Sark, if nothing else, and that was something, considering that nobody else would come within 10 yards of him.

Sloane entered the room a second later, Marshall at his heels. Sloane stood at the head of the table and waited while Marshall scuttled to his seat. Then he started the meeting.

"The Echelon satellite system. Phone calls, e-mails, faxes from around the world are filtered through a program capable of flagging key words on an NSA watch list." Sark's ears perked up as soon as he heard the word "echelon." This was what he had been waiting for. He made a mental note to contact Irina, via her earrings, later that night. He usually only contacted her once every couple of weeks since it was so risky, but this was important. Very important.

Sark listened carefully as Sloane continued. "Echelon has been immeasurably successful in indicating threats to our national security. Mr. Sark has provided us with new intelligence indicating that an enemy of this country may have acquired the ability to access this terminal." _That's right. I did, didn't I? Well, I may have left out a few "minor" details._

"Gerard Cuvee, former leader of the People's Revolutionary Front -- a crime syndicate whose headquarters were raided by Indian authority last week. Mr. Sark?" Sloane swept his arm in Sark's direction and stepped back.

Sark glanced around the room before speaking. Jack was poker-faced, Sydney was stony-faced, and Marshall was playing with the buttons on his sleeve. What a wonderful audience.

"My dealings with Gerard Cuvee go back several years," he began. "He once showed me an Echelon access terminal he stole from the NSA that he keeps at a front company in Paris." _I should have just stolen it then and saved me all this trouble. Oh well. _

"Recent attention by local authorities has led Cuvee to believe that I betrayed him." _Which I did, naturally._ "Therefore, he is sure to move the terminal to an undisclosed location." _Like he can hide it from me anyway_.

Sloane cut in. "Surveillance team intercepted an operations log indicating that an armored transport has been scheduled for a pick-up tomorrow afternoon. We believe that's when they will be moving the terminal." He paused and Sark felt his heart quicken in anticipation. He knew what was coming.

Sloane turned to Sydney, who was clearly trying to keep the revulsion she felt from creeping onto her face. "Sydney, you and Sark will intercept the convoy en route and bring the terminal back here safely." Her mask slipped for a millisecond before she regained her composure. She gave a curt nod.

Sark watched Sydney as Sloane went over the details of their first mission together. Had he not told her that they were destined to work together not so long ago? She should have seen this one coming. But no matter, she couldn't get out of it anyway.

The meeting ended shortly thereafter, and Sloane told Sydney and Sark to meet up with Marshall later to go over op-tech. It was just as well; Sark had wanted to see if Marshall had finished putting games on his computer. But he wouldn't be able to ask with Sydney in the room with them. God, but his reputation would really be shattered if she found out what he planned on doing in his spare time.

Deciding it would be best if he got his laptop first, Sark made his way to Marshall's office. Apparently, Sydney had had the same idea. He scowled.

Sydney and Marshall were visible through the glass wall. Sark watched as she laughed and pointed to Marshall's desk, where his laptop was resting. A gaggle of girls clad only in coconut bras and hula skirts danced across the screen. _Fuck_. A grin spread over Marshall's face and he opened his mouth…

Sark broke into a light jog. People stared as he passed them. He flew into Marshall's office, trying to maintain his professional air and failing spectacularly. Sydney stared at him, his uncharacteristic behavior making her forget about the computer.

His face blank, Sark sighed inwardly with relief. He was saved. Sydney gave him a weird look, but then proceeded to ask Marshall how his mother was doing.

Sark looked at his computer while the two talked. A group of monkeys had joined in the fun and were now chasing the tropical beauties around as they shrieked and giggled. Strange, but one of the monkeys reminded him strongly of Sloane…

ooooooooooooooo

Sark was thoroughly enjoying himself. He was on his first mission with Sydney, and he had a feeling there would be many more to come. And he had a killer costume. Okay, so maybe he wasn't crazy about the hat, but the cape had a certain theatrical flair to it. It was a shame that nobody else could admire his outfit, as he was sitting in traffic. Oh well.

A truck passed him on the right. Sark spoke into his transmitter. "Convoy's on the move. ETA – five minutes."

Sark glanced over his shoulder before pulling out and following the truck. They were nearing the overpass where Sydney was posing as a road inspector. Her outfit was not nearly as cool as his was. It consisted of an orange hard hat and a construction vest. Awful color, orange.

Traffic slowed again. "I'm right behind the truck," Sark said, tilting his head to try and catch a glimpse of Sydney.

A clipped response. "Copy that. I'm in position."

Sark eased the car forward slightly. He decided that he might as well put the time to good use, which in his mind was needling Sydney. "You know," he began. "It's a pity we're traveling separately. We could've used the opportunity to get to know each other better." He gave a crooked grin. It really would've been nice to travel with her.

Sark was a little disappointed when Sydney gave him a calm, detached answer. "Yeah, I'm broken up about that too." No matter, he would just have to try a little bit harder.

"You're surprisingly adept at keeping your curiosity in check." He could now see the outline of her figure in the distance.

A fine edge had crept into Sydney's voice. "Don't flatter yourself," she said. _Well you're welcome to do it for me, dearest, if you'd like. I do love compliments. _

"I'm referring to the fact that your mother and I worked together before I arrived here -- before she... went into hiding." Sark deliberately paused, just enough to create a little tension. "I learned a lot from her. In some ways, I think of her as a mother myself." He really should stop telling her the truth all the time. It might become a habit.

Sydney didn't reply for a moment, and Sark wasn't sure if she was even going to. Then her voice came across, hard and a little angry. "Listen to me. You and I have nothing in common." _Oh, but you'd be surprised at how much we do have in common. _

"We're not friends, we're not going to become friends, and you certainly won't bait me with stories about a woman I never knew." _The hell I won't. I ought to have some fun. _

"I don't get any consideration at all for the fact that I didn't tell Sloane you conspired to kill him (yet)?" He asked lightly.

Sydney had regained control again. "We've covered this. You can't expose me without exposing yourself. Now, I'm almost into the city's traffic control network. Get your head into the game." She was especially touchy today. Perhaps she was just jealous of his cape. After all, who wouldn't be?

A minute later Sydney spoke again. "I see you. I'm turning the intersection to red."

The light up ahead changed from yellow to red. All the vehicles around him came to a stop. This was it. Sark deftly stepped out of his car. "I'm moving in to disable the escort car."

"Copy that," Sydney said.

Sark walked between the line of cars on either side of him. He was delighted to find that his cape was billowing slightly behind him. Perhaps Sloane would let him keep the cape when the mission was over. He could wear it to the office.

Sark approached the escort car from behind and looked up at Sydney, who was just above him. She dropped the pyramid-shaped device onto the roof of the van. It opened slowly and beeped.

Upon hearing the noise, Sark pushed aside his cape, rather dramatically, and pointed his gun at the car. He pulled the trigger and the back window shattered. The escort car was filled with tear gas. There was a small explosion to his right as the pyramid tore a hole in the ceiling of the van.

Sark watched as Sydney ripped off her construction vest and put on a gas mask. She quickly lowered herself by rope into the van. She had just disappeared from view when a police officer ran up to Sark. "Police! Police!" Sark promptly shot him with a tranq. The policeman fell to the ground as Sydney jumped out of the back of the van.

She was breathing hard. "It's empty. The terminal's not there." Damn

Sark spun around and scanned the surrounding area. "The truck's a decoy," he said. His eyes fell on the three men who were exiting the escort car. He and Sydney took off at the same time, in opposite directions; she in the direction of the terminal, he in the direction of the car.

Sark was vaguely aware of Sydney as she streaked off to the side. The streets and sidewalks were crowded with people. He shoved them out of the way, desperate to get the car. Sydney was sprinting down the street towards the terminal. She jumped onto a car, not missing a beat.

Sark knew there he had to hurry if he wanted to catch up with Sydney. After all, she would need a getaway car. It seemed to take Sark an eternity to reach the car with all the chaos erupting around him. Chaos caused by him. He finally did, gunning the engine and pulling out, causing several drivers around him to yell and honk. He knocked the mirror off one car but didn't stop.

Sydney was just ahead of him. He couldn't help but admire her as she jumped off the roof of a car and kicked one of the fleeing men in the head. Poor guy didn't have a chance. She picked up the briefcase just as Sark screeched to halt beside her. "Get in the car!" He yelled.

Sydney yanked open the door and practically dove in, clutching the terminal to her chest. Sark pressed down on the pedal, and they were off.

When they returned to L.A., Sloane was very pleased with their success. So instead of shoving a glass ball down Sark's throat, he shook his hand and clapped him on the back, as if that was reward enough for a job well done. Sark would've preferred to have the cape instead.

A/N: DEAR READERS, PLEASE GATHER ROUND. I HAVE SOMETHING IMPORTANT TO SAY. I'm not trying to blow things out of proportion here, but something needs to be cleared up so there will be no questions in the future. I have never, and will never, take or borrow ideas from other authors. This is my story, and I want only my original ideas in it. I do have a few functioning brain cells, which I occasionally put to good use, and I don't need to take ideas from other people. But again, I'm not trying to make a big deal out of this. I just wanted to make sure that everyone knows where I stand regarding this issue, and that even the faintest suggestion that I would have to resort to taking ideas from other people offends me.

On a lighter note, I would be much obliged if you would review this chapter for me. Thanks.


	12. Sending Signals

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

It was just another normal day at SD-6; it was just another normal briefing. Sark sat around the conference table with Jack, Sydney, and Marshall. Sloane was at the head of the table as usual.

"The Echelon access terminal that you retrieved in Paris was rigged with a boot sector fail-safe," Sloane said, casting his eyes around the table. "When we turned it on, the hard drive was erased. The good news is that Mr. Cuvee is no longer in possession of the terminal."

_Yes, I feel so much better now that it's in your hands_, Sark thought. _And I feel even better knowing that I put it there_. "The bad news is that he may still have a way to access Echelon." Oh, he does. You can count on it.

Sloane turned it over to Sark with a flick of his wrist. Sark placed his arms on the table and leaned forward. "One of Cuvee's men placed a call to a data storage facility in London. This facility caters to high-end corporate clients. It's likely Cuvee duplicated the Echelon software and had them stored in a secure server there."

Jack met Sark's eyes and spoke. "If he did, he could use them to reverse engineer a new terminal there." He could do a lot more than that, believe me.

Sloane, who was no doubt feeling left out of the conversation, turned his attention to Sydney and Marshall. "Sydney, you'll acquire the files and delete them from Cuvee's back-up server," he said. "Mr. Sark has provided Marshall with tech specs on the data storage facility." Sark waited for Marshall to go off on some crazy tangent as usual and was disappointed when he actually stayed on the subject.

"Actually, um, yeah, actually, about that, the, uh, the facility is wired with electronic countermeasures and the computer's secured via military-grade encryption." He was so funny. Sark was seriously considering dragging Marshall along with him when he left. The more the merrier. "So any decryption device or radio contact would be detected so the only way the terminal can be accessed is by someone who knows how to crack polymorphic algorithms."

Sydney broke in. "My math skills may be above average but I can't do advanced calculus in my head." Sark felt like rolling his eyes. You aren't expected to, my dear. And just for the record, not everything is about you. He thought for a second. Okay, well maybe it is.

Sloane looked faintly amused. "That's why you're going in with Marshall."

Marshall looked confused. "Marshall who?" He asked. A genuine smile tugged on the corners of Sark's mouth.

Everybody turned to stare at Marshall. His eyes went as wide as saucers. "Wait a minute," he said, scrambling for words. "What?"

Sloane was obviously losing patience with the befuddled technician. "You're the only one qualified to hack the server without the aid of an electronic device," he said. Marshall looked horrified.

"B-But I'm, uh, I can't go because I'm not field rated. So..." He trailed off hopefully. _Sorry, but I don't think you're going to get off that easy, my friend. _

"You will be by the time you leave," Sloane answered easily, as though a person really could be field trained in a matter of hours. "Sark will help you review the operational parameters and I'm sure Sydney will take very good care of you."

She better take good care of him, Sark thought. He had become strangely protective of Marshall Flinkman in recent weeks, owing no doubt to the fact that he genuinely liked him, and he would not be pleased with Sydney if she brought his friend back in pieces. In fact, he might be forced to retaliate.

Sloane and Jack exited the conference room just minutes later. Sark, Sydney, and Marshall remained seated at the table. Sark was to go over some of the details with them. He began immediately. After all, he would need every extra second he could get to prepare Marshall for the field. "Once Powell ingests the scopolamine, it'll take effect in roughly five minutes."

Sydney nodded to show that she understood. Marshall was staring off into space. He was still in shock.

Sark continued, ignoring the fact that Marshall was obviously not hearing a word he said. "The idea is to make Powell believe he merely fell asleep." The opera does have that effect on some people, so I daresay it won't be too difficult. "So the dose will be mild. That means once you steal the access card, get across town to the server facility, download the Echelon software and return the key to the pocket before intermission, there will be a car waiting for you out front."

Sark was going to offer Sydney a few pieces of advice just to show his goodwill, or maybe just to bother her, but was stopped short by Marshall, who was so out of it that he nearly fell out of his chair. Sark was about to reach over and yank him upright, but then he remembered that he shouldn't be doing that type of thing in front of Sydney.

Sydney reached over and pulled up the still-dazed Marshall. His eyes looked a little glassy. Seeing that Marshall was going to be fine, Sydney left the conference room. She was probably in a hurry to go meet with her precious handler, Sark thought with a flurry of mixed emotions. No matter.

He sighed softly and looked over at Marshall, who was in danger of falling out of his chair again. He didn't have a lot of time to train Marshall with, but the time he did have would be wasted if Marshall didn't comprehend a word he said. Sark needed to snap him out of it. Perhaps they should start his training by going out for coffee. Then they could continue on from there.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark was mutinous. There was really no other word for it. Sydney Bristow had just returned from her mission with Marshall. Alone. And while Sark knew exactly who had Marshall, he had no idea where he was being held. So there wasn't a whole lot he could do about the situation.

For one thing, Sark was no longer going to the office every day. He had come today because he wanted to see how Sydney and Marshall's mission had gone. Now he wished he hadn't come at all, because he was just itching to give Sydney a piece of his mind. But seeing as how that was impossible, he settled for stomping around the office and throwing her dirty looks. He had even considered "accidentally" spilling his scalding coffee all over her, but had decided against it. Sydney looked confused by his behavior, which made it all the worse. She didn't even know what she'd done to deserve his wrath.

And to complicate matters even more, Sark had received his first signal from Irina, which could only mean one thing. Irina had full access to Echelon. How stupid was the CIA? They knew exactly who this woman was, and yet, she had accomplished exactly what she had planned on from the beginning. He would have at least thought Jack would have learned his lesson, but apparently not.

But now that Sark had received his sign from Irina, it was time. Time to do something he had been dreading right from the start. He now had to tell Sloane about the Bristows and their double agent status. Of course he wasn't to tell Sloane everything, not even close, but enough to earn his trust. Sark just had to remind himself that he was doing this for certain reasons that were entirely his own, and it would be worth it later on. After all, he was a firm believer in the end justifying the means. And he would do what he had to do.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark didn't return to the office until a few days later. He had missed Marshall's homecoming, which was probably a good thing since he wouldn't have been able to really talk to his friend anyway. But even with Marshall back safe and sound, Sark's attitude towards Sydney hadn't thawed much. He wanted to hold onto his anger, but forget the reason for it, because it might make things a little easier to do in the future.

ooooooooooooooo

Sloane now knew about Sydney and Jack's betrayal. He had taken it better than Sark had thought he would. There had been no yelling, no denials, no broken furniture. Just a broken acceptance; of course they had betrayed him. It wasn't difficult for Sark to convince Sloane not to kill them. Sark had simply informed Sloane that they would play a large part in the plan later on. And Sloane had accepted his information without question. It was something he would live to regret in the future.

A/N: Okay, this part wasn't taken from Alias scenes. I just wrote it because I wondered what Sark was doing during these episodes and because Alice wanted to see Sark being angry with Sydney over Marshall. Hope you enjoyed it. I did.


	13. Planting Seeds of Destruction

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

The plan was accelerating rapidly. The downfall of SD-6 was imminent, and today was the last day that Sark would make an appearance at the office. He actually had an important task to complete today. It was a fairly simple one, and yet the entire plan hinged on whether he could "leak" the right intel to Sydney Bristow. Which of course he could, so he had nothing to worry about.

Sydney stepped out of Geiger's office just ahead of him. Speak of the devil.

Sark fell in step beside Sydney as she walked briskly down the hall. Her lips were pursed and there was a thin line creasing her forehead. It would appear that her meeting with Mr. Geiger had not gone very well. What a shame.

Sydney didn't even acknowledge Sark's presence, so he stuck his hands in his pocket and leaned towards her. "The new boss has a dreadful personality, don't you think?"

She kept walking. "I've seen worse," she said curtly. _That's right; you have to put up with Michael Vaughn, don't you? My condolences._

Sark tried to rearrange his features into a hurt expression. "Am I supposed to take that personally?" He asked. That might have hurt his feelings had he been a bit more sensitive, or actually cared.

Sydney stopped and faced him. "Sark, what do you want?" She demanded. Oh, nothing much. I just wanted to give you some crucial information that will speed along the inevitable demise of the agency you hate so much. But I just might change my mind, seeing as how you aren't being very nice to me.

Sark put on a serious face and tried to look concerned, which wasn't easy. "When I met with Geiger this morning, I left his office feeling as unstrung as you look." Geiger was a little bit unsettling. And a little bit ugly, too. Couldn't forget that.

His comment was met with an icy glare. "Just so you know, I'm fully strung." _Of course you are_, he thought patronizingly.

Sark lowered his voice confidentially. "We all have secrets, Sydney." His mind suddenly got caught up in his own memories. He struggled for a millisecond before continuing. "And from what I've heard about Geiger, he'll discover them." _Or yours anyway_.

This time it was Sydney who stepped closer. She crossed her arms, an obvious defense mechanism, and her expression visibly softened for the first time since they had met. "What have you heard about Geiger?" She asked. Her eyes darted from side to side, as though afraid someone might witness her being relatively civil to him.

Sark sucked on the insides of his cheek. How did he want to word this exactly? He needed to be very crafty for this to work. "Former German intelligence. Has more enemies than various other Germans we're familiar with. He seems to think Sloane is a traitor." _Which he is, by the way._ "He's already unlocked Sloane's secret files on server forty-seven." There, he'd said it. The magic number.

Confusion covered Sydney's face. "There are only forty-six servers," she said slowly. _Good girl_, Sark thought approvingly. _Now pay close attention to what I'm about to say. _

It was Sark's turn to look perplexed. "Really? Well, he announced it to me as if it were a victory. 'I've already hacked Sloane's files on server forty-seven.'"

Sydney didn't respond. She stood there for a minute staring thoughtfully into space. Then she spun around and walked away without a word. Sark watched as she grabbed her jacket and purse and made a beeline for the exit. She was so incredibly obvious. How did she survive in this business?

Sark made his way back to his office. He needed to make sure that he had everything cleared out of his desk. Then he planned on saying good-bye to Marshall. Nothing long and drawn-out or sentimental, just a simple good-bye. It had been nice knowing Marshall Flinkman, but if they should ever meet in the future, it would be from opposite sides. And Sark wouldn't be able to protect him then. It would probably be best just to pretend that his friendship with the funny gadget guy had never happened at all.

Sark turned his thoughts to that evening. He would be meeting with Allison for the first time since she had been turned into a replica of Francie. The thought made him feel slightly nauseous, but he blamed it on the fact that he hadn't gotten to eat breakfast that morning. He was trying hard not to think about what he was doing. He knew that by replacing Francie with a clone, he was crossing a line. But what could he do? He was already in too deep as it was, and he had realized back at his Falkan hut that if he went through with this plan there was no going back. And he had made his decision a long time ago.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark had finally returned to his home in Galway, Ireland. He was currently sitting at his large black desk, a glass of red wine in one hand. He swirled it around absently, thinking about how good it felt to be back in his own country. Even though he had spent most of his childhood in England, his heart belonged to Ireland.

The next few days would be busy though, because nostalgia wasn't the only reason Sark had come home. There were quite a few reasons, actually. For one, he needed to hire more men. He seemed to go through them fairly quick, and it was always good to have a minder or two around. Most of his people actually came from the IRA. Sark had deep ties within the organization, and he admired their loyalty to the cause, even if it was perhaps a bit misplaced. They even had a saying: Once in, never out.

Sark leaned back in his chair. His phone calls could be made once he had settled in. He studied the dark liquid sloshing around his glass and took a long sip. His eyes closed involuntarily as the wine ran smoothly down his throat. His mind turned to a more pressing matter. Phase one was complete. Sydney had followed his information and now the Alliance was gone forever, destroyed. Just like Sloane and Irina had both wanted. Just like he had wanted.

The small phone lying next to the bottle of wine emitted a small buzzing noise. Sark slowly reached over and looked at the number that lit up the screen. It was Sloane. Wonderful. He was probably calling to revel in his success, to have someone praise his evil genius. Blech.

Sark hit a button and put the phone to his ear. He and Sloane exchanged the obligatory pleasantries. Then Sark said what he knew Sloane really wanted to hear.

"It's remarkable, really." _How much I dislike you, I mean._ "Sydney leaked the intel to the CIA and the rest played out exactly as you predicted it would. So congratulations, sir. The Alliance is gone."  
"We shouldn't celebrate yet," Sloane said. Sark could hear the repressed excitement in his voice. He suddenly pictured Sloane standing on a beach with Emily, enjoying the sunset. It was sickening. "As you know, there's much more work to be done," Sloane continued. Sark's image of Sloane and Emily was replaced by one of Irina sitting in a dark cell. She still needed to be extracted.

"I just wanted to let you know that phase one is complete," Sark said. He resumed swirling his wine. It was hypnotizing.

When Sloane answered he sounded so pleased with himself that Sark half expected him to start purring. "Good. Move on to phase two." Sark could feel the end of the conversation rapidly approaching. He almost sighed in relief. "And Sark?"

Sark held back a groan and forced a calm response. "Yes, Mr. Sloane."

"Check in on our new asset. Make sure we're on schedule." Sloane hung up before Sark could form a proper response. Sark stared at the phone in his hand for a brief moment. He took another long sip from his wine glass. Then he punched in a number. It rang once, twice, three times before a voice answered.

"Yes?" The voice was a low monotone. Sark's stomach lurched unpleasantly. Would he ever get used to Allison's new voice, her new body?

"I've been asked to confirm that you are in position," he said formally, not wanting to get drawn into a conversation.

Apparently, neither did she. Her answer was short and to the point. "Yes. Everything's in place." Her voice was devoid of all emotion. It might have belonged to a robot. Sark's stomach crawled again and he promptly hung up. Talking to Allison made him feel uncomfortable and for some reason, grimy.

Sark suddenly felt like taking a shower. He walked quickly to the bathroom and undressed. He stepped into the shower and turned the water on as hot as he could stand. He usually took cool showers, but occasionally he allowed himself this luxury. The water pounded down on the top of his head and burned as it ran down his body.

He wasn't trying to "cleanse" himself as some might think. He really wasn't. He simply liked the fact that if he stood under the scalding water long enough, he would feel thawed from the inside out. He also liked the tingle that stayed with him for a while after he got out. And he liked the way his skin turned mottled from the heat. Red and white blended together with touches of purple. It was kind of disturbing, really.

Sark stayed in the shower, motionless, for over half an hour. Then he got out, slowly dried off and dressed, and returned to his wine. Sark refilled his glass and decided that he might as well go ahead and try to make contact with a few of his friends from the IRA. He had nothing better to do, and it wouldn't hurt to have a few men ready in case he needed them in a hurry, which he probably would. And after all, one should always be prepared.

That was the motto of the Boy Scouts.


	14. Rock Bottom and Digging

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Sark had been shadowing the Kaplan family for the past couple of days. It hadn't been stimulating work, but it had to be done. Today the family planned on going to a downtown aquarium that, strangely enough, Sark had actually visited before. He had been there, three, maybe four times since coming to L.A. Water had always made him feel relaxed, and he enjoyed strolling about looking at the fish. Sark had an extensive knowledge of the ocean, due to the fact that he was a master scuba diver, and he could identify most of them.

The Kaplans probably wouldn't have much fun on this particular outing because, unbeknownst to them, Sark planned on tagging along. But it would be for business, not pleasure. There was nothing like a little kidnapping to brighten one's day.

It was around noon when the Kaplans left for the aquarium, Sark trailing not far behind. When they reached their destination, he waited a few minutes before following them in. He had contacted his men on the way, and several were already stationed in and around the building.

The aquarium was designed in a large circle, with several paths leading off the main hall. Not knowing which way the Kaplans had gone, Sark turned left. It was surprisingly cold in the building. He turned up the collar of his black jacket. This was the first day in quite a while that he hadn't worn a suit. Today he had dressed casually, in khakis and a soft blue polo. It made for a nice change of pace.

Sark walked leisurely past the large tank. As he watched all the different types of fish swirl past him, he was suddenly reminded of an ancient Taoist verse that Irina had taught him.

_In motion be like water _

_At rest like a mirror_

_Respond like the echo_

_Be subtle as though non-existent_

It was a form of meditation that was actually quite effective. For a minute Sark almost forgot why he was there as he stopped and stared at his faint reflection on the thick glass. Sometimes he wondered if he was really there at all.

A voice snapped him out of it. "Mom?" A small boy was looking around, a frightened expression on his face. It was the Kaplan boy.

Elsa Kaplan came running up before Sark could do anything. But he didn't have to, anyway. Three of his men were rapidly approaching from the opposite direction. They would take care of those two, but he would have to find the scientist himself. Shouldn't be too difficult.

Sark took off down one of the smaller branches. Up ahead of him, Kaplan rounded a corner and came into view. Sark shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped forward out of the shadows. He looked Kaplan in the eye, calm as could be.

"I believe I can help you locate your son. And your wife." Kaplan stared at him without speaking, sizing him up. It was a little disconcerting. Finally Kaplan nodded slowly, as if he knew he was looking at a very dangerous man, and it would not do well to ignore him.

Upon seeing the nod, Sark motioned with his head, indicating for Kaplan to follow him. They walked in silence out the back exit, where a dark SUV was waiting for them. The back door opened, revealing the wife and child. They were tied securely, their eyes wide with fear. Kaplan made a small choking noise before joining them.

Sark climbed into the passenger seat and folded his hands neatly in his lap. The vehicle moved forward and a minute later was submerged in traffic. A noise from the back made him look in the review mirror. He tried to ignore the muffled scream of Elsa, and the pitiful cry of the child as one of Sark's men struck Kaplan across the back of his head. As Kaplan slumped down between the seats, Sark tore his eyes from the mirror and made himself look straight ahead. He was suddenly very tired, and he still had to call Sloane.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark silently made his way down to the bathroom to get the leverage Sloane wanted. He could feel the tape recorder press against his thigh as he walked down the dark hall. His black leather jacket rustled softly at every step. He was trying to figure out why Sloane had ordered his men to place the prisoners in the bathroom of all places. It made absolutely no sense. But then, it was becoming increasingly obvious that the man was off his rocker.

When Sark had arrived with the Caplan family in tow, Sloane had grinned like the loony he was. Then he had made Sark stay in the room for his little chat with Caplan. It had not been much fun.

All he had done was stand by the wall, hands behind his back, and pretend to be part of the decoration. He had been a Victorian vase. White and blue. Very pretty.

He had watched Caplan's eyes widen in fear as Sloane threatened his family. He had watched the confusion creep over his face as Sloane talked about Rambaldi. And he had watched his mouth tighten in resignation as he realized there was no way out. So yeah, overall, not fun at all, but what he had to do next would be even worse than that.

Two guards were standing at the entrance to the bathroom. A lump formed in Sark's throat and he swallowed slowly before entering the well-lit room. The captives were handcuffed to a pipe at the other end of the room. The boy looked at him with huge, frightened eyes as he approached. Elsa Caplan watched him warily, as if he were a dangerous animal. Which in a way, he was.

Halfway across the room, Sark stopped and regarded his prisoners. He held his arms away from his body and unconsciously grabbed both ends of his jacket with each hand; the only outward sign of his hesitation. Elsa Caplan saw this, and in that one brief second as Sark stood there, the lights from above casting shadows over his eyes, she also saw him as he actually was, instead of how he appeared. It was a sight she would never forget.

Sark moved forward again until he was standing over the two people huddled on the cold floor. "Where's my husband?" Elsa demanded, clutching the shaking child to her chest.

"Your husband is a gifted individual. And we need his assistance for a short while. Should he choose to cooperate, this will soon be an unpleasant memory." _For both of us_. Sark tried to ignore the tightening of his chest as he bent down beside the pair and pulled the compact recorder from his pocket.

"We'd like for you to tell your husband that you support his cooperation and if he doesn't, your son will be the first to suffer." He spoke the words, but it might as well have been somebody else. It sounded that way to him, at least.

Elsa Caplan let out a dry sob. "Oh God…" Sark averted his eyes. It would appear that Mrs. Caplan really did love her family, despite her status as a Russian agent. Now why did that sound so familiar?

The child was crying openly now, trying to move closer still to his mother. God, how far would he go to achieve his goals? He had now sunken so low as to threaten a mere child. Pathetic. Slowly, he extended the recorder until it was next to the child's mouth.

Elsa jerked her head to indicate that she wanted to speak first. Sark switched the device over to her. She was no longer sobbing, but had rather a hard look in her eyes. He pushed record and nodded to her. "Help them, honey. Do what they want, please, or they're going to hurt Aaron..." She trailed off and looked at her little boy. He was only whimpering now, but his bottom lip was quivering.

Sark hit stop and stood up, slipping the recorder back into his pocket. Maybe Sloane would be satisfied with just the wife. It was worth a try, anyway. But for now he just wanted to get the hell out of that suddenly too small room. He needed to breathe.

Once he had exited the room and put a safe distance between him and the guards, Sark stopped and tilted his head back, eyes closed_. It's all worth it_, he reminded himself. _It's for the best, and don't you forget it. You do, and you'll end up dead. So why don't you take __Sydney__'s advice and get your head in the game._

ooooooooooooooo

Sark had noticed that more and more often lately, he had nothing to do. He felt like a zombie, or a robot, even. Unless Sloane gave him a direct order, he just walked around, letting his mind wander to more attractive places. Like Barbados. His imaginary self had spent a good part of the time haggling with the beach vendors, one of which who had nearly talked him into getting cornrows. Luckily, his hair had ended up being too short. However, this little incident had prompted Sark to change his happy place. He hadn't made up his mind on the location, but it needed to be a mountainous region this time. He enjoyed rock climbing.

Currently, Sark was lounging on a soft black sofa in a sparsely furnished room off the main corridor. His mind was engaged in searching for a new place for his imaginary travels. Sloane's voice penetrated his mind and broke his train of thought. Damn, he'd almost made his decision, too.

Sloane entered the room and began pacing near the doorway, his cell phone attached to his head. He was speaking in low, comforting tones. He must be talking to his dear wife. Sark listened with a mixture of repulsion and amusement.

"Just a few more days, Emily," Sloane murmured. "Well, I'm still waiting for the owner to counter. Yeah, of course it has a garden. As a matter of fact, I'm looking out the window at the garden right now." Sark rolled his eyes. What a liar; he was actually looking at a blank wall. "Yes. I miss you too, my love." He hung up and slipped his phone into his front pocket, a look of pure satisfaction on his face. Disgusting.

Sloane took a seat behind his desk and laced his fingers together. Sark just couldn't resist. "What happens when your wife's ready to move to her Tuscan villa?" He made his face politely curious.

"I purchased it six months ago," Sloane said, letting his eyes rest on Sark's face. For a second, Sark remembered exactly why Sloane was such a genius. He was always two steps ahead of the rest. You had to give the man some credit.

Sark removed the arm he had draped over the back of the couch and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. "I made contact with our point man. He's assembling a team for the bank." The bank…what fun that would be. "But I must question your decision to lead them in yourself."

He paused. Sloane was looking at him strangely, almost in a calculating manner. A brief wave of panic swept over him. He pushed it down and pushed onward, hoping to allay Sloane's sudden suspicions. "In spite of your precautions, it's wildly risky, given your new level of notoriety." _No, of course I'm not trying to stop you from completing your little fantasy…Oh hell, who am I kidding? _

Sloane was still looking at him with an unreadable expression. His eyes were glittering strangely, which made him look quite mad. "I'm approaching the finish line of a thirty-year odyssey. I won't let anyone else take the final steps for me."

Sark could only nod slightly, as though he accepted and agreed with Sloane's decision. There was nothing else he could do. Sloane stood and walked out of the room. He was probably going to visit Caplan, which reminded Sark that he had his own prisoners to look after. It was almost time for their evening meal.

He considered having one of the other men take care of it, but then disregarded that idea. If he did that there was no guarantee that the two would actually be taken care of. But he really didn't want to face them again. The child still quivered whenever he entered the room and Elsa looked at him like he was scum.

Not that he could argue, really, but he felt like saying, "Hey, I only work here." Like that made what he was doing any better. Oh well, maybe one day he would be absolved of all his sins. That is, if it was at all possible. But somehow, he doubted it was.


	15. To the Rescue

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

The bank loomed up ahead. Sark pulled to a smooth stop in front of the building and waited while Sloane and a couple of his men exited the limo. After they had disappeared inside the building, he drove to the end of the block and turned onto a small side street. He parked near the curb and reached for his laptop. In just a few short seconds he had everything set up.

It would be a couple of minutes before his services would be required. He sat back but kept his hands resting on the keyboard. He was feeling rather irked at the moment. Sloane had gradually demoted him until finally…he was a chauffeur.

It had started with him going from Mr. Sark to just plain Sark. Then Sloane had started sending him on petty errands that had nothing to do their work. Next Sloane had him taking care of their hostages. And now he was simply a chauffeur, a part of the background. Perhaps it was for the best, though. It would make things easier if Sloane underestimated him and viewed him as a tamed animal. But he wasn't tame; he was simply…hibernating, if you will. And when he awoke, Sloane would be very sorry indeed.

Sark leaned forward and stared at the computer screen in front of him. Sloane was talking to Herr Kuntz as they approached the vault. His voice came through the earpiece. "Oh, thank you very much, most kind. But due to a sensitive stomach my physician has prohibited caffeine from my diet." _Sensitive stomach?__ Remind me who drank three pots of coffee this morning_, Sark thought irritably, _and didn't save me any._

Kuntz gave Sloane a tight smile. "Very well. After you."

Sark's fingers flew over the keyboard as though they had a mind of their own. In the past, he was usually the one out in the field, but these past few months with Sloane (and Marshall) had turned him into quite the computer genius. A new screen popped up. There was no match found for Sloane's face. Perfect. He spoke into the transmitter. "I've spliced into the facial registration database. You've cleared their system."

Kuntz had just entered the vault, Sloane right behind him. Sark needed a little more time before they were ready. "I'll need ten seconds. Keep him talking a bit longer." Why don't you just distract him by yodeling and dancing a jig?

Sloane clasped his hands behind his back. "Herr Kuntz, let me ask you something. This American war on terrorism, has it affected your procedure in any way at all?" Or maybe you could just bore him to death.

Sark pressed a few more keys. "Looping the feed... now."

Kuntz, who was unwittingly speaking his last words on earth, was busy reassuring Sloane. "I assure you, our institution is one of the most safest in the world." He was promptly silenced by Sloane's gun. Famous last words.

Sloane rushed into the vault. "Box 4747!" He quickly opened the box and pulled out a briefcase. The magnetometer was encased inside of it. Sloane smiled when he saw it. It made his already appalling features even more hideous than before. Sark hadn't realized it was possible for any human being to look quite that horrifying. But Sloane was master of the impossible, it seemed.

It was a welcome distraction when Sark spotted two unwelcome figures charging into the front lobby. Sydney and her little play thing. They should not have come here. It was a mistake.

He spoke frantically into his transmitter. "Sydney's in the lobby! She's by the entrance!" He looked at the screen, feeling somewhat regretful. _You brought this on yourself you know_, he silently informed the Sydney on the screen. _Well, sort of. _

The next few seconds were chaos. The end result was Sloane and some of his hired… "help" lined up on one side with Sydney and Michael Vaughn on the other. It appeared that every person remaining in the lobby was in possession of a gun. How swell. So much for security.

Sloane was yelling across the lobby at Sydney. "I warned you, Sydney. I can't guarantee your safety in a situation like this." Sark nearly snorted. Like he cared about anyone except himself.

Sydney's lips had gone thin with determination. "There's no way I'm letting you walk out of here!"

This could get very interesting…

The man at Sydney's side had attracted Sloane's attention. "Ah... you must be the man that Sark told me about. The man that Sydney was willing to kill me for," Sloane said, a little smile playing on his mouth. Both faces went white.

Michael Vaughn's forehead wrinkled as he tried his best to sneer. It was even sadder than watching Sloane trying to be intimidating. "She would have killed you for a lot less." _Yes, and I would kill you for nothing but my own pleasure_, Sark thought, shooting a withering glance at the screen.

Sydney broke in. "The police are on their way. We have Caplan's family. Give up!" Yes, he's going to surrender just like that, Sydney, because he's such a good sport. Right. Sark transferred his laptop to the passenger seat of the limo. It was time for him to pull around. He shifted into drive and moved forward.

He could still hear Sloane's voice in his ear. "We've rigged the lower level with enough C-4 to level the entire city block so if we don't walk out of here... nobody does."

Sark briefly toyed with the idea of turning around and hightailing it in the opposite direction. If Sloane decided to blow everything to hell, he didn't want to be around. He would get there in his own time, and in his own way.

Sark tuned back into Sloane's voice. "And you, my dear…you'll be driving me out of here." Keys jingled. It seemed that Sloane had found himself a new driver. _I wonder if that means I get a promotion_, he thought idly.

Well, since Sloane had Sydney, the only thing to do was pick up the rest of his men from the bank and wait for Sloane to make contact. Then they would go from there.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark pulled to a stop a block from the bank and watched the chaos erupting around him. Helicopters swarmed overhead and the building was being surrounded from every possible angle. No matter. He adjusted his earpiece and punched in a series of numbers on his laptop. A voice sounded in his ear.

"No! You make one move and one of his operatives will detonate the explosives. He's got the area under satellite surveillance." It was the voice of Michael Vaughn. His voice grated on Sark's ears even worse than Sloane's did, and that was saying something. "That means let Sloane go and don't tail him until we get this stuff defused!" _Which might take you a little bit longer than you think, Boy Scout._

Sloane and Sydney came walking out the front doors of the bank. The policemen surrounding the building reluctantly lowered their guns and let them pass. They were going to let Sloane just walk away with a valuable CIA agent. And even Sark had no idea what Sloane was planning on doing with her.

Three short low beeps came from the laptop. The detonator signal was lost. Damnit.

Sark spoke to Sloane through his transmitter. "Change of plans. ETA -- five minutes." He got no response except a faint clearing of throat. _Okay, I'll take that as a 'roger that.'_

Approximately 90 seconds later Sark and the rest of his men were sitting in the back of a van they hadn't actually planned on using, but was simply there as a back up. The driver had the petal mashed clear to the floor. A blue ford focus kept popping in and out of view. As the two vehicles entered a long straight stretch, the van rapidly closed the distance between them.

The men moved away from the side door to give Sark and Sloane room while still keeping their guns trained on Sydney. Sark moved forward and gripped his own gun tightly. This was it. He violently pushed on the door as the van pulled alongside the focus.

Sloane was already halfway out the back door. He reached out his hand and Sark took it in a viselike grip. Then he yanked him forward into the van, even while a small part of his mind was pointing out how convenient it would be for Sloane to have an accident. The logical part of his mind told the voice to shut up.

Sloane rolled over and both men simultaneously turned to look at Sydney as the van sped up. She looked absolutely furious and her lips had gone thin again. That was never good.

Sark reached for his gun_. Best be sure that she doesn't follow_. He leaned back out of the van and took careful aim. One shot is all it would take. His finger gently squeezed the trigger and a millisecond later the hood of Sydney's ford focus flew up, causing her to lose sight of them. Perfect.

Every person in the van was watching as the blue car spun out of control. It kept turning until it reached the other side of the road. Then it stopped. By that time, the van was too far away for them to see the driver, but Sark could imagine what her reaction would be. She would probably hit something and curse out loud. He would've liked to see that. Her frustration gave him a certain amount of pleasure, he had to admit. And at this point in time, he would take whatever kind of pleasure he could get.


	16. Homecoming Memories

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Sark sat at a large table back at the warehouse in Switzerland. He wasn't allowed to leave the premises without Sloane's permission, which he didn't have at the moment. He had run out of things to read, and was bored stiff. In fact, he was so bored that he was almost ready to go chat with Caplan, which wouldn't have been so pathetic had he not already been to see him twice in the past hour. Oh well. But still, it wouldn't hurt to at least take a walk.

Sloane entered the room before Sark had a chance to stand up. Damn. Now he had to listen to the ravings of a madman. This day just kept getting better and better.

Sloane walked up to the table and looked at Sark. "I need a progress report," he said by way of greeting. _Well, you're still a bloody lunatic_, Sark though snarkily. _And I still don't like you. _

He met Sloane's eyes composedly. "Caplan says he is a day away." That should be good enough.

"We took the magnetometer from Amcorp to expedite the construction of the Rambaldi device. My flight is the day after tomorrow. It needs to be completed before then." That…could be a bit tricky.

If Caplan failed he would no doubt be executed. And Sark would be the one to do it, naturally. "I believe Caplan to be a man of his word." Perhaps that would allay the old man's fears, and buy Caplan some time.

That crazy glint was shining in Sloane's eyes again. "Mr. Caplan is only assisting us because he believes we're holding his family hostage. If what he's put together is as powerful as I believe it to be, I don't want him to be anywhere near it when it's operational." _Yeah, I'm not too keen on being around it either. In fact, I think you should be the one to test it._

"I'll conduct a preliminary test myself," Sark said calmly, hoping that his eye wasn't twitching. _And then you can ship what's left of me home in a little matchbox. You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you? Sick bastard. _

Sloane turned to leave the room. "You do that... by tomorrow." Sark felt like giving him a mock salute, but that probably wasn't the smartest thing to do at the moment. Or ever, if he wanted to live.

Well, it looked like he now had a pleasant afternoon activity to complete. He wondered if he could manipulate Sloane into testing the device with him. After all, if he ended up as a pile of ashes on the floor, he sure as hell wasn't going alone. Sloane was going to be there too, right next to him. So if things didn't exactly pan out the way they anticipated, Sark would at least have the satisfaction of knowing that he made a bigger pile of ashes than Sloane did. And that had to count for something.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark strode along the corridor to the main room. He had just finished the preliminary testing of the Rambaldi device, and to put it quite simply, it was incredible. It would appear that it was even more powerful than he had first anticipated. However, it was in Sloane's hands, and that would not do well at all. At the moment, he was unsure of what his actions might be. After all, he hadn't planned on Sloane actually using the device. He hadn't planned on a lot of things, it seemed.

When he entered the main room Sloane was already standing by the table. He was staring at what looked like a manuscript. There was a gaping hole in the center of it. Sark imagined that it had a lot in common with Sloane's brain.

He stopped at Sloane's side and inspected the document as he spoke. "Caplan finished earlier this morning. The Rambaldi device is complete. I ran the test. I think you'll be pleased with the results." Sloane was now looking at some photos and he looked entirely unimpressed with Sark's news.

Sark felt a little miffed. Here he had risked his life to test Sloane's precious device and he didn't he get a thank you. Hell, he didn't even get spared a glance. He tried to engage Sloane again.

"When we agreed to combine our resources, sir, you promised you'd show me incredible things." _And I was hoping that would mean more than your incredibly dull wardrobe_. "But a suitcase neutron bomb designed in the sixteenth century -- is that even a theoretical possibility?"

It did sound fantastically impossible. But Sark had seen the impossible. He had done the impossible. And he would do it again, even if this was way out of his league. Which remained to be seen.

Sloane didn't answer him, but he did look up, a vacant expression on his face. Sark wasn't sure if Sloane was going to actually say anything, and he wasn't going to wait around to find out. He had things to do. Big, important things like…oh hell. Okay, so maybe he didn't have anything better to do, but that didn't mean he wanted to stare at Sloane all day. Maybe he could go talk to Caplan. He needed somebody to talk to, or listen to at any rate, and Sloane had already proved that he was incapable of speech today.

It was at times like this that he missed Marshall. He allowed himself to remember his old friend for a minute. Marshall was hardly ever at a loss for words. It would be nice to have him around. Why couldn't they have kidnapped Marshall? He was a genius, too. And one genius was as good as the next, right? Well, apparently not. Still, it would've been much more pleasant for Sark if he had an ally around. Or at least someone he liked. But all he had now was someone he would like to kill and a prisoner. Oh well. Things would get better soon.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark's earlier assumption that things would get better soon had been correct. Sloane, who was being strangely quiet as of late, had told him to lay low for the time being, so that's what he was doing. He had seized this opportunity to once again return to his home in Ireland since he wasn't sure if he would get another chance to in the near future.

Being home had produced the desired effect of calming him down. It also gave him time to regroup, so to speak. He had been in touch with several of his contacts from the IRA again. In this business, as well as any other, you couldn't afford to alienate or ignore possible allies. Just a precaution, and it was good for him to get out a little bit anyway.

When he wasn't out with one acquaintance or another, he was roaming the countryside. Long hours were spent traversing over green hills or wandering aimlessly through nearby fields. It was late afternoon as he ambled along on this particular day. Memories from his past kept playing through his head. He knew better than to fight them. Instead he watched with detached interest as different people, places, and events passed through his mind's eye. Some of the memories were pleasant enough. Others were not.

_A beautiful woman with long dark hair and penetrating brown eyes gazed at him. "This is what you really are." __Sark__ looked away in defiance. Her eyes narrowed. "It's a gift that few receive." He met her eyes again, wanting to say, "Well maybe I don't want this 'gift'." The woman walked over and stood in front of him. "You can't change it, no matter what you do." He lowered his eyes as she turned and looked out onto the terrace. "Believe me," she said softly. "I've tried." _

_Sark__ watched as a man with dark blonde hair leaned in to kiss his date goodnight. After a couple minutes the man gave the woman a final kiss on the lips and walked away, not knowing that he was about to die. __Sark__ raised his gun and took aim. The first bullet went straight through the man's heart. The second one followed it. The man fell to the pavement and a few seconds later his head was resting in a pool of blood. _

_ The brown haired woman was back. She was standing next to __Sark__ in a large warehouse. The warehouse was filled with what appeared to be a very complex obstacle course on one side and a shooting range and boxing ring on the other. It was absolutely fantastic, a dream. __Sark__ stared in awe. The woman at his side turned to face him, an amused smile on her lips. "I don't think you'll be bored anymore, Julian." He turned to look at her, his eyes wide with ill-disguised excitement. "Is this mine?" She actually laughed. "Yes. This is your new playground. You will train here." __Sark__ didn't answer her. He was too enraptured with his surroundings. He didn't even notice when she quietly slipped out a few minutes later._

_Sark__ swayed as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. There was a small slash above his left eyebrow and a stream of blood was trickling down the side of his face. He lowered his eyes to his naked chest. A large gash ran the length of his side. Blood was not trickling from this wound; it was gushing. His pants were soaked with blood. __Sark__ placed his hands on either side of the full-length mirror to steady himself. I'll be fine, he thought woozily. It's just a scratch. Then his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell forward, hitting the right side of his head on the mirror before hitting the ground. _

Something was vibrating in his front pocket. Sark blinked, successfully pulling himself back to the present. He flipped open his phone. "Hello?" _God, please don't be Sloane_, he prayed. _Just don't be._

A low monotone. Gee, who could that be? "They found the bugs. How should I proceed?" Sark suddenly wished it was Sloane on the other end of the line.

"They'll be looking for our LA asset. Give them someone."

"I'll take care of it." The tone of her voice never changed.

Sark hung up, having put the issue to rest. He wondered if Allison talked to Sydney in that same monotone she used with him. If she did, Sydney would surely catch onto their scheme pretty quickly, and that would not do.

Perhaps he should have Sloane give "Francie" a pep talk. Inspire her to put some effort into this job. Because right now, it didn't sound or look like she was trying very hard. The only useful thing they had learned as of late was that Sydney was now sleeping with Michael Vaughn. Like that wasn't completely obvious anyway. Please…

Sark slipped his phone in his pocket as he reached the front door of his home. He suddenly felt like having a drink. His usual wine wouldn't do the trick this time. No, it would be whiskey tonight. Buschmills.


	17. Spiritual Crimes

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

He should have known that it was too good to last. The past few days at home had been as good as could be expected, but it was over now. He had just gotten off the phone with Sloane and his entire body felt paralyzed. The conversation had blown him away…

_Sloane didn't even pretend to go through the trivialities anymore. He just went straight to the point. _"_Kabir's__ chosen his target. His ex-wife." He sounded more cheerful than he had in weeks._

_Sark__'s__ mind was busy trying to analyze this new information. "We're using the device on Alia Gizabi?" He asked, aghast. Please God, let this be some twisted joke. We can't actually use this device. We just can't._

_His question was brushed aside, as usual. "You'll be briefed en route to __Mexico City__. You leave at once." Sloane hung up. Sark continued holding the phone to his ear, ignoring the dial tone. Yes, I've had a wonderful break, thank you. No, I'm not busy at the moment. Sure, I have no problem with packing up and going off to do your dirty work. You're right; I am heading off to a certain death, but we all die eventually. I know, enlightening attitude, isn't it?_

Sark had finally hung up the phone and had been sitting, unmoving and unblinking, ever since. What the hell was he supposed to do? Irina had conveniently forgotten to mention that he might have to use this monstrosity. God, what had he gotten himself into this time? And how could he fix it?

The bottle of whiskey winked at him seductively from the table across the room. He walked over to it and picked it up. That question was easy enough. He couldn't fix it. It was too late, a done deal. All he could do now is go through with it. There could be no killing Sloane. There could be no backing out. And there could be no running off for help, because there was no help to run to. How very upsetting.

_Enough of this_. Sark brought the bottle to his lips and involuntarily relaxed as the whiskey poured down his throat. The last rational thought he allowed himself to have was of Irina, and if even she knew the damage and destruction that was about to be unleashed because of her. Yeah, she probably did. Irina knew everything.

ooooooooooooooo  
Sark entered the old church and looked around. People were scattered throughout the pews, their heads bowed in silent prayer. A few others were kneeling at the alter or staring up at the stained glass windows. Priests walked carefully about, their robes swishing quietly as they attended to their holy business.

Nobody noticed as Sark made his way up one of the side aisles to the front of the church. He took a seat in the first pew and leaned forward, hands clasped. His head began to pound as he unwillingly began to reflect on his life, and the person he was still growing into. Because of his questionable lifestyle, people always assumed two things about him.

The first was that he must have had a terrible childhood, which was absolute nonsense. His childhood hadn't been perfect, but it had been bearable enough, and it annoyed him that people thought they could always blame their current problems on things that had happened to them years ago. It was ridiculous. As someone once said, "The past is always influencing the future, but at some point you have to let it go." Excuses were for the weak.

But the assumption that bothered him the most was the second. That he must be without a soul, without a conscience, without a faith, without a god. How else could he kill so easily, people asked? _Call it a talent, you worthless imbeciles._

The truth of the matter was that, while Sark hadn't set foot in a church in years, he had his own God that he answered to. It wasn't the gentle God of the masses. It was the God from the Old Testament, the one that understood things like vengeance, sacrifice, and war.

And as Sark sat there in the hard pew, he wondered what God would think of what he was about to do. It was one thing to kill someone who deserved it, but it was quite another to kill an innocent. He tried to avoid it whenever possible, but sometimes it was unavoidable. But using this machine was going to be like committing a mass murder, and no matter what anyone said, the blood would be on his hands alone. Irrelevant, considering that they were already stained beyond recognition.

Sark stood abruptly, nearly bumping into a priest that was passing by. The priest paused and looked Sark in the eye. His eyes were politely curious and probing at the same time. It was unsettling, but Sark never faltered as he returned the other's gaze. After a few seconds, the priest turned away, his heart grieving for a reason he could not understand.

It had been a mistake to come inside, Sark thought as he strode swiftly towards the exit. _Time to get down to business._ His van was parked near the front of the steps. He was only allowed to park there for thirty minutes, and his time was almost up. After punching a number into his cell phone, Sark climbed into the van and closed the door.

The suitcase bomb was sitting in the back. He flipped one of the side switches and the bomb beeped. Sloane answered his phone as the firebomb came to life, glowing red. Sark sat down as he brought his "boss" up to date.

"Surveillance confirms Gizabi in the administrative wing, adjacent to the church." He tried to ignore the church bells that were ringing in the distance. Why was Sloane wasting the device on one woman? What was the point? "Now, according to Caplan's calculations of the running requirements we'll need twenty million watts to reach that section of the building."

"Twenty per cent of its capacity," Sloane said. He was excited. But then he was in a safe place and in no immediate danger. What a pity.

"Yes. That should give us coverage of the entire embassy." He paused. Maybe he could still get out of this. "But, sir, if Caplan's off by even a microtesla, this could go very wrong."

Sloane didn't even listen to his argument. "Do it," he ordered.

Sark sucked on the inside of his cheeks in irritation. "That's easy for you to say, sir, you're eight thousand miles away." He was tired of this. If Sloane wanted this so badly, why couldn't he do it himself? Oh, that's right. He wasn't man enough.

Sloane ignored his defiant answer. "I'll wait to hear from you." _Sure, assuming I'm in any shape to get a hold of you when this travesty is over_. Sark hung up before he could say anything stupid. This was not the time to lose his temper. This was not the time to make a mistake. This was the time to follow orders like a good boy.

Swallowing his hesitation, Sark reached forward and started the timer. It was set for three minutes, and as the clock began ticking down, he knew he had just set a cataclysmic event into motion. It was all his doing, all his fault.

As Sark hastily stepped out of the van, he saw the face of the priest in his mind. He pushed it aside, and walked briskly across the street and away from the church. If he had waited a second longer, he might've seen the old lady who was hobbling, surprisingly fast, up the steps to the church. But as it was, he didn't notice anything or anyone as he fled from the scene of his crime.

ooooooooooooooo

After setting off the firebomb in Mexico City, Sark had traveled to one of the coastal cities before returning to Sloane. For a few hours, he had walked aimlessly about the town, letting his mind flit about and not allowing it to focus on any one subject for very long.

On the boardwalk, he had let himself get caught in the middle of a large crowd of tourists who were watching a live exhibit. An artist was stretched out on the ground, wearing a gas mask and holding a can of spray paint. A blank piece of cardboard lie in front of him.

Five minutes later, the cardboard showed a strange and foreign land. It looked to be a different planet, with several moons gravitating around it. There were caves, valleys, and several staircases that led to a beautiful city enclosed in a bubble-like case. It was absolutely incredible, and the artist had used only several different colors of spray paint, a cup to make the moons circular, and a wad of old newspaper to create the illusion of texture.

Sark had witnessed this type of art before, and yet it never ceased to amaze him. He had been tempted to buy one of the artist's larger pieces, but had ended up buying only a small bookmark instead. The painting on it was of an underwater city. Atlantis, perhaps.

Soon after, Sark had reluctantly returned to Afghanistan, knowing that Sloane would be suspicious if he was much later. He had been welcomed back with open arms, literally. Both Sloane and the warlord had thought a congratulatory embrace was in order.

Sark's skin had crawled at their touch. But he had smiled smugly and accepted their thanks. Now he found himself sitting at a table with Sloane and Kabir, trying to look pleased with his success as they watched the reports on television.

He tried unsuccessfully to tune out the announcer. "Sixty-two people are confirmed dead in what government officials are calling the worst act of terrorism in Mexico City in a decade." _The worst act of terrorism in a decade. Are you satisfied? Do you feel good? Was it worth it? _Sark wanted to slam his fist into something just to stop the barrage of questions. Instead he continued to listen to the news.

The announcer added gravely. "Some people describe it as an act of God, though local officials are still investigating the matter." _I'm not a god_, Sark thought resentfully. _I just killed sixty-two innocent people. Why, you ask? I can't even tell you that_. "No confirmation--" Thankfully, Kubir switched off the set.

Instinctively, Sark knew that Sloane wanted him to speak. He swallowed, his mouth dry, trying to ignore the tightening in his throat. "All of the victims were incinerated beyond recognition." _In a church.__ I did this in a church, of all places. I think I pretty much sealed my fate with that, wouldn't you say?_ "Absent positive identification, a list of presumed dead was published. Your ex is on the list." _You stupid, stupid man.__ Using this kind of power on a woman just because she left you. I hope you burn in hell for that. But then I guess I'll see you there. _

Kabir raised one hand. One of his men came and presented Sloane with a wrapped gift. Sloane was trying to hide his look of excitement and anticipation and failing miserably. His eyes were saying, "Give me, give me, give me." Out loud all he said was, "What is this?" It's my soul, you prat. Wrapped up nice and neat for you. Sold for a price, to the devil himself.

Kabir smiled softly at Sloane's question. "A small token of appreciation." For getting rid of my pesky ex-wife by burning her to a crisp. I just can't thank you enough, my good sir.

Sloane's expression intensified as he slowly unfolded the cloth that concealed his present. It was the arhat. "No. No, this is too much. I cannot accept this." Sloane shook his head in agitation as he spoke. Sark saw right through his act. He sat silently as Sloane held up the arhat with trembling hands. Was this what Sloane had been after all along? A pretty statue?

Kabir seemed pleased with Sloane's reaction. "I saw you admire it and deservedly so. You have destroyed my enemy." Yes, because your ex was such a huge threat to you. "You are in every way my arhat. I will have forty million wired tomorrow to the account of your choosing."

Forty million. Had that been a part of the deal in the beginning? Sark couldn't remember. He reflected for a second. At sixty-two people killed, by him, the cost of their lives was roughly around 645,000 dollars each. That made him feel so much better.


	18. Missing Pieces of Me

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Sark had put the Mexico City experience behind him. There was nothing else to do. He refused to wallow in the guilt and self-loathing that the firebomb had released in him. So he let it go. It was the past, and it was over. Yes, it was his fault, but that didn't mean he was going to waste time agonizing over something he couldn't change. Why should he?

As Sark wandered the halls of the warehouse (he and Sloane had only just returned) he thought about Sydney Bristow. She had shown up in Afghanistan, rather unexpectedly, and caused quite a riot.

When she had finally been subdued, the warlord's men had taken her into a dark room and tied her to a chair. Then she had been interrogated while being blinded by a bright white light. It was a good technique to use to keep your hostage off balance.

However, Miss Bristow was no doubt used to such methods and had given away no information. Sark had watched, via security camera, as she was questioned. She had been stiff and unyielding. Then Sloane had gone to talk to her. Her lips had tightened and Sark could've sworn he saw a vein pulsing on her forehead. Needless to say, Sloane had made no progress with his ex-favorite agent.

Sark had wanted to go to her himself, not really to get information but just to harass her in general, but Sloane had put his foot down. He seemed to think that Sark would only bring out the worst in Sydney. He was probably right.

Still, Sark would've liked to visit his ex-coworker just to say 'hi'. Oh well. He was sure to run into Sydney Bristow again. That is, if she escaped from the warlord alive. He gave her fifty-fifty odds.

Entering the main room of the warehouse Sark saw Sloane studying the arhat. Sloane glanced up at him as he approached, but remained silent. Sark decided it was time to have a little chat with his, er…employer.

If Sloane didn't have a good explanation for his recent actions, Sark was going to let him have it. Forget Irina and her master plan. He wasn't going to sit around and play lapdog to a man who had lost his mind. It was time to make some progress.

There was a slight edge to Sark's voice as he spoke. "You talk of power and control but when we create an incredibly powerful weapon you leave it in the hands of a complete stranger." _And then you make me use it on innocent people._ "Tell me, how was what happened good for us?" _But more importantly, how was it good for me? _

Sloane didn't speak. Instead, he kept his eyes on the arhat. Without warning, he raised the figurine and smashed it against the table.

Sark froze in disbelief. If he had previously harbored any doubt of Sloane's sanity, it was gone now. The man had just destroyed a priceless piece of art. Sloane was digging through the broken pieces of the statue that littered the table. He withdrew a small piece of paper.

"Hand me the top page of the manuscript," he said without looking up.

Confused, Sark held out the page Sloane wanted. Sloane took it and placed the piece from the arhat inside the hole in the middle of the page. It was a perfect fit. Holy Mother of God.

Sark stared in awe at how the pieces fit together so well. How had Sloane known? It was unbelievable. Sloane carefully set both pieces down on the table in front of him, a genuine smile making the lines around his eyes crinkle.

He sighed softly and walked towards the far end of the room. He stopped and stared out the large windows, a dreamy look in his eyes.

Moving forward, Sark placed his hands on the Rambaldi page and its missing piece. Perhaps he had been wrong all along. Perhaps he had been a hypocrite.

All this time, he had secretly accused Sloane of underestimating him, but it seemed that he was guilty of the same thing. He had brushed Sloane off as a nutty old man instead of regarding him as a real threat. That would have to change.

ooooooooooooooo

The dim beam from the small flashlight swept over the top of the elevator. After setting the flashlight down, Sark crouched down and set to work. He unzipped the large duffel bag he had brought with him and began neatly removing the materials he needed. A few minutes later, everything was neatly arranged at his feet.

Sark glanced at his watch and stood up, stretching. His knees, which had been stinging, immediately felt better. Carefully, he stepped forward and peered over the edge. A soft smile lit his features as he looked down into the black hole. He was only about halfway up the shaft, but the bottom still wasn't visible.

Of course, he should've called the elevator down to ground level to begin with. It would've made his work a little easier. But he hadn't felt like pushing the elevator button. So he'd ended up climbing nearly twenty flights of stairs, duffel bag slung carelessly across one shoulder.

Looking down into the elevator shaft was like looking down into a bottomless pit. Sark briefly entertained the image of himself stepping off the elevator and disappearing into the bottomless abyss. He brushed away the thought because obviously, the shaft was not really bottomless. But it was fun to imagine.

Sighing, Sark turned and kneeled back down beside his supplies. Twenty-three minutes later, two amateur bombs were sitting squarely in the center of the small elevator roof. Sark connected the last wire on the second bomb, punched in a five-digit number and stood up again. He silently studied his handiwork with a critical eye. Everything appeared to be in order.

Sark stuffed the flashlight into his trench coat and packed the leftovers materials back into his duffel. His hand touched on the hand clamp he had brought. It was for 'emergency purposes,' but what the hell, right? Reaching over, he locked it onto the neighboring elevator line. After giving it a hard test tug, he pulled the duffel strap over his head. It settled securely on his neck. He stepped off the elevator.

Cold air whipped across his face and neck as gravity pulled him to the ground. When he could make out the bottom rushing up to meet him, Sark squeezed the hand brake. His landing was much more gentle than he had thought it would be.

He couldn't help but grin as he walked out the back door. His car sat a few yards away, waiting for him. But his work wasn't finished yet. Sark unlocked the trunk, grabbed the crowbar that he had stashed there earlier, and threw the duffel bag inside. He fingered the remote control in his pocket and reentered the deserted building. All he had to do now was wait.

Luri Karpachev and his two bodyguards entered the building shortly thereafter. Sark watched from the shadows as they entered the elevator on the right. Good thing he had put that 'out of order' sign on the other one. He was so clever.

Sark moved to stand directly in front of the elevator doors. He watched as the lit numbers jumped higher and higher. Reaching a hand into his pocket, he withdrew the tiny control. He pushed a button, preparing both bombs for detonation.

High above him, beyond his hearing, the bombs discharged a single beep. Sark pushed another button, and after a brief delay period, he heard the first bomb go off. It wasn't a powerful bomb, it was actually quite basic, but it still made the walls of the lobby shake slightly.

Sark imagined what was going on overhead. The elevator had probably stopped after plummeting a little ways down. The men trapped inside were no doubt laughing it off as some minor technical problem. His finger inched towards the detonation button again. He was going to have to disillusion them.

A second explosion rocked the elevator shaft. Sark wondered if the three men inside the elevator were screaming as they plummeted towards the ground. He wondered if they had any hope of surviving. Their chances were slim; hardly anyone lived through an elevator crash.

He should know. He had been in one a few years ago. There had been eight other people crammed in the elevator with him. He had been the sole survivor. It had, quite frankly, been a horrifying experience. And as Sark waited calmly in front of the elevator doors, he could very well imagine the terror that was welling up inside each of the men as they plunged to their death.

The rumbling of the runaway elevator was getting louder. Sark took several large steps backward just before the elevator smashed into the ground. For a few seconds, the noise from the wreck continued to echo up through the shaft. Then, all was quiet.

Swinging the crowbar casually from one hand, Sark moved forward to survey the damage. He knocked loudly on the elevator door, waiting to see if anyone answered. It remained silent. Excellent.

Sark raised the crowbar and forced it between the sliding doors. He shifted his body to the left, putting all of his weight into cracking the door. Finally, the doors budged and he was able to drive the door all the way open. He brought the flashlight from his pocket and flipped it on before entering.

The lights of the elevator were flickering down on the three men who were lying on the floor, their bodies twisted into unnatural positions. Dropping the crowbar, Sark leaned down over the man known as Karpachev. Nonchalantly, he reached forward and stuck one hand inside the dead man's coat. When he withdrew it, he had something else. Karpachev's wallet.

Yes, all of this had been arranged just so he could steal a wallet. He had become a common pickpocket. Wonderful. What would Sloane have him doing next? Fetching pizza? Sark rolled his eyes at the thought. Straightening, he slipped the wallet into his pants pocket, stepped back out into the lobby, and headed for the back exit. Speaking of Sloane, it was time to report back. Goody.

Sark slid into the driver's seat and took a minute to roll his neck. His entire body was in knots. It was a good thing he had a massage scheduled for later in the day. Full-body.

He had definitely earned it. All work and no play was no way to live. Besides, some of the knots along his shoulders were getting sore. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself to be pampered, at least three months. And he tended to get knots easier than anything, for some reason.

The last massage therapist had actually commented on how tense and knotty he was. Sark had murmured something about his stressful job. The therapist, who took him for just another spoiled rich kid, had just chuckled and said, "Honey, you don't know what stress is." He hadn't bothered to correct her.


	19. Bloody Reunion

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Sark mentally reviewed the footage from the security camera in Bangkok in his mind. Irina had looked stunning. She always looked great, but last night she had outdone herself. Jack seemed to agree with him, too, judging by the look on his face throughout the entire tape.

Irina had slunk right up to Illya Stuka and, after demanding that he release the poor creature he had been torturing, had sat down across from him. Sark had almost flinched as he watched Stuka play his little knife game with Irina. And he had nearly gasped out loud when, in one quick movement, she suddenly grabbed his knife and stuck it in the middle of his left hand. God, but that must have been painful.

A fight had ensued, which had actually been quite fun to watch, and Jack, who had been lingering in the background up until this point, had saved Irina's life.

But Sark knew Irina better than anyone on the planet, and he knew that there was no way in hell she had missed that other guard. She had turned her back on purpose, putting herself at risk and forcing Jack to come to her aid. Forcing Jack to come to her.

Yes, Irina sure was a tricky one, Sark thought idly as he entered the main room where Sloane was sitting. He was looking at the manuscript and missing piece, just like he'd been doing for days.

Sark moved forward and announced his presence. "Mr. Sloane."

Sloane looked up inquiringly. "Yes?" It was the most he'd said in weeks. He must be in a good mood.

"It seems Irina Derevko was seen last night in Bangkok."

It would appear that Irina had the CIA wrapped around her finger. Why else would they let her out, given her past history, even if it was to help Jack Bristow? Especially if it was to help Jack Bristow. Jack had proved long ago that when it came to Irina Derevko, he couldn't think straight. There were very few that could.

Sloane looked unimpressed with his news and kept to his one syllable responses. "Where?"

"At a club with Ilya Stuka." And Jack Bristow. They looked pretty cozy. And if I know Irina, she'll have Jack at her feet soon, whether he likes it or not. But I'm thinking that he'll like it very much. Who wouldn't?

Sloane did not reply immediately, so Sark took the initiative. After explaining what his next move would be and receiving Sloane's approval, Sark exited the room. There was work to be done.

He walked up several slights of stairs and down several long, narrow hallways before he reached his destination. It was a small, sparsely furnished room. The interior was dark and gloomy, despite having a large window at one end of the room.

His laptop was sitting on a wooden table near the window. The screensaver that Marshall had designed for him so long ago was on the screen. A small smile tugged at his lips as he watched one of the tropical beauties throw the monkey that resembled Sloane into the water. Huh…it obviously didn't know how to swim. What a shame.

Sark sat down and got to work. Less than twenty minutes later, he leaned back and smirked in satisfaction. He had just made contact with the CIA through one of Irina's e-mail accounts. He had taken the bait that they had so neatly dangled in front of him, and had requested a meeting to discuss the purchase of the Rambaldi manuscript.

It was going just as Irina said it would. All they had to do now was wait for a reply.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark was back to playing chauffer again, but this time he didn't mind because he was here to pick up Irina. He had arrived at the agreed upon location early, just to be prepared. No one else had come with him; he was all alone as he waited somewhat impatiently behind the wheel of the shiny black limo.

The minutes ticked by slowly. Bored, he got out of the vehicle and stood with his hands in his pockets. Where was she? Finally, Sark looked up to find a bevy of vans coming his way. They stopped a good distance away, and a few seconds later, Irina emerged from a white van and slowly sauntered over to him.

He hadn't seen her for months, but it seemed as though she had somehow become more beautiful than before. Or maybe his memory had simply forgotten the finer details of her face.

Sark took advantage of her slow approach to appraise her. She was dressed casually, but damn if she didn't look better than ever. The look in her eyes revealed the fact that she was aware of his scrutiny, and did not mind. In fact, she probably welcomed it.

Sark walked around to the other side of the limo as Irina drew closer. When she was about five feet away from him, she stopped. He reached out and opened the back door for her. Irina peered into the dark interior, as though looking for Sloane. But Sloane was not there, obviously. She drew back and looked at him, apparently waiting for an explanation.

These were to be the first words he had spoken to her in months. "I realize the plan was for Mr. Sloane to meet you here but for security reasons, I'm afraid that's impossible. If you get in, I'll take you to him." He paused and cut his eyes towards the train of vehicles she had come with. "Only you."

Irina brushed off his instructions. "Where's Sloane?" She asked softly. He wasn't fooled by her gentle tone.

His eyes narrowed as he answered her. "Close. I assure you."

"Then bring him to me," she demanded. Your wish is my command…Wait a minute, no it isn't.

Sark fought hard to keep his eyes from rolling. "That's not an option," he said in a clipped voice.

Irina gave an almost imperceptible shrug. "Then our deal's off." _Sure, and I'll just leave you with your friends from the CIA. Is that fine by you? _

Sark was beginning to get annoyed. He hadn't been reunited with Irina for five minutes and she was already playing games with him. "So be it." He closed the back door, none too gently, and made as if returning to the driver's side.

Irina's sharp voice stopped him in his tracks. "It's a big car," she stated persuasively. "I believe there's room for all of us."

_Goddamn the woman_, Sark thought furiously. She knew what that would mean for the men she brought with her, and she didn't care. He knew this was her perverse way of telling him she missed him, and he didn't appreciate it in the least.

Sark tried to reason with her, but he knew she had already decided. She was going to make him kill the two guards. Goddamn her. "That wasn't the plan," he said coldly, glaring at her. Her lips curved into a soft smirk. She knew she had him. After a charged silence, he spoke again. "Get in."

He didn't bother opening the door for them. Instead, he opened his own door and climbed behind the wheel. Once they were all situated in their seats, he turned the key in the ignition and pulled out carefully onto the road.

As Sark drove along the road, he glanced in the rearview mirror and met Irina's gaze. He tried to communicate his annoyance at her manipulative behavior to her, but she simply turned and looked out the window. This happened several more times before they reached the overpass. Before crossing under it and preparing to make the switch, he met her eyes again. This time, she didn't look away.

Right as they drove under the overpass, an identical limo took off just ahead of them, and Sark slammed on the brakes. _All right, then_. Without the slightest hesitation, he pulled a gun from his jacket and whirled around in his seat. Two shots rang out and the two Delta guards slumped in their seats. Irina's face briefly showed shock before going impressively blank.

They just stared at each other for a moment. _Are you pleased now, Irina? They're dead, just like you wanted_. He broke the silence. "Please step out of the car," he said stonily, with no room for argument. An amused expression settled over her features as she complied with his request.

A van marked "Policia" pulled up a short distance from the limo. Sark exited from the front, and together they walked over to it. They stopped beside it and Irina waited quietly for Sark to slide open the door. It opened easily, revealing a satisfied Sloane on the inside.

Sloane's whole face crinkled as he smiled at "The Man." "It's good to see you again, Irina," he said kindly, extending his hand to her.

Irina's face lit in a warm smile, but again, Sark wasn't fooled by her deceptively placid demeanor. If he had been Sloane (but thank God he wasn't), that smile would've put him on his guard in an instant.

"Thank you for extracting me."

Sark tried to hide his fascination as he watched Irina slip her hand into Sloane's and allow him to help her into the van.

Sark followed her in, closing the door behind him. The van immediately began moving, and shortly thereafter they were driving in the direction they had come.

Irina and Sloane were in the seat ahead of him, talking amiably. Several times, Irina tried to draw Sark into their conversation, but he obstinately refused to say a word. He was still very much aggravated by her earlier display of the power she held over him. She knew it wasn't necessary to take those guards with her.

Already back to her old tricks, she was, and Sark wasn't looking forward to the next hoop she had set up for him, whatever it might be.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark's annoyance at Irina had faded away in the last few days. The guards were dead, and there was nothing to be done about it now. So after putting the incident aside, Sark had taken Irina back into his good graces, and they were now as close as they were before she left. There was something different about her though, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. It was puzzling.

It felt strange being around both Sloane and Irina at the same time. He wasn't quite sure how to act around them, especially when they talked to each other, leaving him on the sidelines. Like they were doing now. Sark was sitting on a couch with his laptop, pretending to work while listening to them talk quietly. They were seated just a few yards away on the opposite side of the plane.

Irina was talking now. "I still have operatives in St. Petersburg, Madrid and Cairo."

Yeah, there and about a dozen other places, Sark thought, keeping his eyes focused on the picture that filled his computer screen. Earlier he had been idly reading through Sydney and Jack's files from SD-6 (He had Marshall's files hidden away too). He still couldn't believe Sloane hadn't caught onto them. It was beyond his comprehension.

Sloane's eyes never strayed from Irina's face. "How reliable?"

"Reliable." Sark let his eyes rest on the small patch of ankle visible between Irina's black pants and her shoes. It was hypnotizing for some reason. He couldn't look away.

Sark heard Sloane speaking, but it sounded like it was coming from a great distance away. "Good. You, are you all right?" His voice was laced with concern.

"The extraction went well." Sark brought himself out of his daze at Irina's smooth voice. He noticed that she hadn't actually answered Sloane's question. Sloane noticed too.

"I'm asking about you, Irina," he said gently.

Irina's smile had become slightly fixed. "I'm happy to see you again."

_Still didn't answer the question,_ Sark thought. _And no you aren't._

Sloane smiled happily. "I was thinking the same thing myself. What about the genetic database?"

The smile on Irina's face dropped to be replaced by her business face. "Sark and I will meet you back in Zurich. As soon as they're acquired, you'll have the files." So he would be going with Irina. Good.

Sloane answer mirrored Sark's internal response. "Good. I'll be in Tuscany with Emily."

Finally, Sark would be far, far away from Sloane. And he would be with Irina. What more could he ask for? Allison's face floated into his mind, but he brushed it aside after a moment. No, he was glad that Allison wasn't here. She and Irina had never gotten along that well. Oh they were always civil, but nothing more. And he worked better with Irina anyway.

Irina leaned forward suddenly, an intense look on her face. "How is she?" _How is wh—oh, Emily_.

"She's in remission. The hard part for her now is missing the people she had to leave behind. Especially Sydney." Irina's face went hard upon hearing her daughter's name fall from Sloane's mouth. "You know how much we loved her as if she were our own."

Her mouth had tightened and a thin line creased her forehead. She resembled Sydney so much at that moment it was startling.

When Irina turned her head to address him, Sark nearly jumped. He had thought that they had forgotten he was here. Apparently not. "Excuse us," Irina said, holding his gaze for a moment before facing Sloane again.

Sark understood immediately why she wanted privacy, but he couldn't help but feel like a small child banished into exile as he left the room with his laptop.

He briefly considered listening at the door but decided against it. Irina would tell him about it later, if he asked, but he already knew what their conversation would be about anyway. Sydney. It was always about Sydney.

His suspicions were confirmed when Sloane stepped out of the room just minutes later, a scowl on his face. He walked past Sark without so much as a glance. Irina must have let him have it. Sark smiled, pleased.

It would be best to give Irina some time alone, judging by the look on Sloane's face. Later on he would go to her, and listen if need be. Most likely they would just sit in companionable silence. But that was fine with him, her mere presence was enough for him.


	20. Fight with the Fallen

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Irina's voice sounded clearly in Sark's ear. He listened intently as she talked confidently to one of the German officials. The two talked business for a few minutes before the official finally said, "I will show you where the data is processed. Right this way." Bingo.

"Thank you," Irina murmured politely.

Sark spoke softly into his transmitter. "Servers are located in sublevel E. Beyond radio contact. When you're prepared for extraction, I'll be standing by." Irina cleared her throat and Sark knew that she had heard him.

A green van pulled up and parked across the street. It didn't seem even remotely threatening, and yet it attracted Sark's attention immediately. The dark windows, nondescript model, and generic license plate all screamed "SURVEILLANCE TEAM!"

Still, it was only a suspicion until a man climbed out of the driver seat wearing plain coveralls. Please…could they be more obvious? Sark's eyes narrowed as he watched the van. So somebody, most likely the CIA, was tracking them. And they were being oh so very clever and subtle about it. Yeah, it was probably Sydney and her tag-along lover. Perhaps even her father, too.

Trying to figure out who it was would prove to be fruitless at the moment. All that mattered now was getting to Irina. Sark quickly scanned himself for bugs. Clean.

He opened the driver's side door and launched himself out of the van, walking towards the building, his strides long and hurried. His briefcase was swinging from one hand. He reached for his cell phone with his free hand. A few seconds later, he was talking to a woman (or was it a man?) with a very deep voice.

As Sark bounded up the concrete steps leading up to the building, he tried to sound both professional and hurried. "Hello, my name is Peter Garo. I'm Ms. Hertzgar's assistant. I'm just pulling up and running late as it is. Would it be possible to have a pass waiting for me at the front desk?"

He didn't wait for an affirmation. "Thank you," he said in a lilting voice. He hung up as he entered the lobby. His pass was already waiting for him. Nice service they had around here.

After being given directions, Sark set off to find Irina. According to the front desk person (which had indeed been a woman) she was with the official on the fifth floor in room the processing room. The elevator was slow in coming, so he headed straight for the stairs, taking them three or four at a time. By the time he reached the correct floor, his cheeks were flushed and his thigh was bruised from his briefcase hitting against it repeatedly.

Sark checked the label on several doors before coming to the right one. He barged in, nearly knocking the heavy door off his hinges. His gun promptly disabled the camera in the far corner of the room. He didn't see Irina's surprised expression as he shot her companion in the chest. The German sprawled backwards and landed in a chair, dead.

Sark whirled to face Irina, whose face was tense and white. "There's a tactical team in a van out front. We've been tracked. I've swept myself, I'm clean." He was taking out a bug sweeper even as he spoke.

Irina stood next to the wall, her body completely still as he swept the device up and down her body. It beeped once in front of her breasts.

Irina looked momentarily shocked. "Jack," she whispered. Sark raised an eyebrow slightly. Jack? How interesting.

He pulled out a medical kit and looked at her inquiringly. "I don't understand, when we extracted you from the CIA, we scanned you for transmitters."

"It must've been on a time delay." Irina no longer looked shocked. In fact, she almost looked impressed despite herself. But Sark still had a question. How had Jack gotten the transm—Oh…oh. Well then.

He almost smiled, but stopped short when Irina practically ripped off her suit jacket. There was no such thing as modesty in this line of work, and he was suddenly glad of it. Her lean, hard body was showcased quite nicely in a lacy black bra. Good God in heaven, but this must be his lucky day.

It was a very good thing that Sark had seen her like this before or else he might have been robbed of his faculties. But other than a slight hitch in his breathing, he showed no outward sign of distraction. Sark pulled out two electro medical paddles and held them close to her chest, hesitantly. Then he glanced at her, unsure.

She braced herself against the wall. "Do it."

_If you say so._ Before he could give it any thought, Sark roughly pressed the paddles to Irina's bare skin. Irina's body went rigid and she grunted in pain. But she didn't scream. She never would.

After a few seconds, Sark pulled the paddles away. His breathing was almost as heavy as Irina's. He watched as her fists slowly unclenched and her face regained a little color.

Wasting no time, Irina pulled back on her business jacket (what a pity) and went straight to a computer. She took out and disk and inserted it into the computer. "This will get us into the hard drive."

"Is the file on the network?"

Irina paused for a minute. "Yes, but it's encrypted. I'll transfer the file and we can cypher it later." _Good enough_.

"How long to download?"

"Five minutes. Make sure there is no evidence that we were here." He knew what that meant.

"All right, I'll take care of it. I'll set the detonation for six minutes. Meet me at the extraction point." He turned and swiftly exited the room, one thing on his mind. He had a building to blow up.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark quickly found his way to the boiler room. He slapped the bomb almost carelessly on the side of the boiler and left after seeing the red numbers begin to count down from six. Now all he had to do was get himself out of the building before he got blown to smithereens. Shouldn't be too difficult.

Knowing that the stairwell to his right was much closer than the elevator, Sark swiftly made his way down the hallway leading to it. He had just reached the door when someone else opened it from the other side. At first glance, it appeared to be Dixon, but as Sark's fist collided with the man's face, he realized it wasn't. The man fell to the floor, unconscious.

There was a second agent behind the first, and Sark turned his attention to him. It was Michael Vaughn. Bloody hell. Why couldn't the little boy just stay home like a good lad? Leave the tough stuff to the professionals.

Vaughn foolishly tried to launch himself at Sark. He got in one punch, which glanced off the side of Sark's face, before Sark elbowed him viciously in the face. Vaughn stumbled down a few stairs, but didn't fall.

This could turn out to be quite fun.

Sark followed him down, grabbed the front of his shirt, and threw him against the railing, causing him to drop his gun. _How very clumsy of you_, he thought as Vaughn struggled against him. The Boy Scout had no chance at all. Sark abruptly released the older man and landed a brutal hit, which send Vaughn tumbling again. He landed on his knees on the landing below.

The gun that Agent Vaughn had dropped before was lying by the window. Sark wasted no time in grabbing it and leveling it at Vaughn's head, his eyes dancing wickedly. He had wanted to do this for so long.

Slowly, he advanced down the stairs towards the cowering man. Would Sydney be terribly angry with him for killing her lover? Probably. But then, she was bound to find another one sooner or later, so what was the harm, really? Michael Vaughn was a pain in the neck, and the world would be better off without him.

A single shot rang out. Vaughn gasped in pain, twisting his head to the side as the bullet struck his chest. Sark could imagine his pain quite well. Even with that Kevlar vest on, it would hurt like hell. Usually at close range the pain was so bad it would knock you out for several minutes.

Sark suddenly remembered that there was a ticking bomb close by, and that several minutes had already passed. There was no time to play silly little games with Michael Vaughn, no matter how badly he wanted to. He wondered why he hated the other man so much, other than the obvious reasons (he was annoying, he was incompetent, he was unnecessary) but then decided that he didn't want to examine the source of the feeling too closely. What did it matter anyway? In just a few short seconds, he was going to send Michael Vaughn to meet his maker.

Sark was just about to squeeze off the final shot when his own gun went flying from his hand. He looked up to find Sydney Bristow standing above him, her face worried, anxious and not a little angry. _Fuck._

Throwing caution to the wind, Sark turned and ran like hell. She would be on him in no time flat. He could hear her clattering down the stairs, but then the noise stopped. What the hell? He was sorely tempted to turn back and see why she was letting him escape, but decided not to push his luck.

Later, he would correctly assume that she had stopped to check on her idiot boyfriend. She had decided that checking on her lover took precedence over apprehending one of the most dangerous men in the world. How insulting.

Sark was one block away when the building exploded. He stopped to watch as the building went up in flames and black smoke filled the sky. People were running in every direction, panicked. It was much like the night of the firebomb. He had created all of this chaos.

That's what his job boiled down to if you really thought about it: deliberately wreaking havoc and causing mayhem. Sark turned away from the scene and began walking in the opposite direction.

Ten minutes, later he reached the extraction point. There was a car and driver waiting there as expected, but Sark did not get in. Instead he leaned casually against the car and waited. Irina arrived a few minutes later, her hair now flying free around her face. They looked at each other but said nothing. Finally, Sark opened the door to the back seat for Irina. As she climbed in, he noticed that there was a small cut on her arm. It wasn't that bad, but it was bleeding a little.

As soon as they were both settled in, the driver eased forward into traffic. Sark reached forward and retrieved the small first aid kit from under the seat in front of him. He opened it and took out a few items. Gently, he took Irina's arm and tugged it closer. She remained silent as he thoroughly cleaned out the gash and bandaged it.

When he was finished, Sark put everything neatly back into the kit and placed it back under the seat. He sat back in his seat and turned his head to the window, watching as the city passed by.

A light weight settled on his arm. Turning, Sark saw that Irina's hand was resting on his sleeve. He looked up at her face, but saw that she was relaxing with her eyes closed and head back.

Seizing this rare opportunity, Sark studied her face. She seemed almost peaceful at the moment. He smiled softly, knowing that neither she nor anybody else would see it. Then he turned back to the window, feeling a little more peaceful himself, despite what he had just done.


	21. An Act of Kindness

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

The deafening noise from the whirling helicopter blades made it nearly impossible for Sark to hear the voice in his ear.

"Go! I have the disk, ready for extraction!"

Sark answered loudly, not knowing if Irina could hear him. "Copy that."

He gripped his gun as the helicopter drew nearer to Sloane's house. As it came into view, Sark saw dozens of agents and officers swarming the premises. Good God, how were they going to get out of there?

Suddenly, there was a different voice shouting in his ear.

"Freeze! Don't move!" It was Sydney.

A moment later, a single shot sounded in Sark's earpiece. Then a long groan of pain…Irina. He almost yelled her name, but stopped himself in time. Instead, he moved to the open side of the helicopter and scanned the grounds, looking for any sign of her.

Finally, Sark found her when his eyes came to rest on a figure sprawled face down on the ground. For a minute, he feared she was dead, but then she slowly got to her feet and started running across the back yard towards him. Sloane and Emily emerged from the side, not far behind her.

Sydney's head emerged from the hole Irina had obviously escaped from, followed by her body. Anger coursed through Sark's body. How dare she shoot his Irina? He leaned out the door and fired at her, forcing her to take cover.

Sark continued covering the area with his gun as Irina, Sloane, and Emily sprinted towards the safety of the helicopter. He glanced back at them just in time to see both Emily and Sloane fall to the ground. Had they tripped or been hit?

He watched as Sloane slowly sat up and looked at his wife, an expression of horror and grief settling over his features like a blanket. Irina, noticing that the others weren't following her, turned back. Cradling her injured shoulder, Irina kneeled beside Sloane, who was crying. Emily's dead body was lying in his arms.

Time seemed to stop completely as Sloane bent down to kiss his wife's pale forehead. Sark had a feeling that Sloane might've sat in that field forever had Irina not grabbed him by the arm and forced him up. They both turned and made for the helicopter once more. Sloane was limping slightly. Sark was absurdly reminded of an old Irish Prayer he had learned as a boy:

"May those who love us love us, and those who don't love us may God turn their hearts, and if he doesn't turn their hearts may he turn their ankles, so we may know them by their limping."

He brushed the thought aside and turned his attention back to Sloane and Irina. They were almost there. Sydney was chasing after them.

"Go, go, go!" Sark shouted. They would make it. They had to.

They did. Sark extended his hand to help first Irina, and then Sloane, climb into the chopper. Irina settled back in her seat, clutching her bloody shoulder. Sloane was in his seat, his body racked with sobs as he watched Sydney run over to Emily's still form.

Sark waited until they were in the air to question Irina. Then he asked the important question. "Do you have the disk?" He asked firmly. Irina shook her head slightly. _Damnit.__ All of this, for nothing. _

They both turned and looked down on the scene below them. Sydney was holding Emily's body in her lap. Even from the air, it was obvious that she was crying. Dixon and Vaughn were rapidly approaching from the far end of the field.

Finally the scene faded from sight and all that was left was the pounding noise of the helicopter and the sound of Sloane's weeping. Irina and Sark looked at each other. She jerked her head slightly at Sloane and he immediately understood.

In one fast movement, Sark extended his arm, gun in hand, and butted Sloane sharply in the head.

Sloane's eyes rolled back and closed as his head lolled towards the window. Without so much as a word or another glance at Irina, Sark turned back around in his seat and faced forward.

He had always disliked, perhaps even hated Arvin Sloane. But the man had seen his wife die just minutes before, and knocking him out would let him forget, temporarily, what he had just witnessed. It was the first kind thing Sark had ever done for him.

And it would probably be the last.


	22. Game of 20 Questions

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Sark now had babysitting to add to his ever-growing list of menial tasks he was forced to perform. He was sitting across the table from Caplan, reading a travel magazine. It had been two long hours since he had entered the room, and he and Caplan hadn't exchanged more than five words with each other.

Caplan seemed quite content to type away at his computer, his bandaged leg stretched out in front of him. Every once in a while, Sark thought he could feel Caplan's eyes burning into him, but he never looked up. He continued to calmly flip through the thick magazine in his lap.

The main feature was an article on Malta and all of its hot spots. The list was so far off that Sark wondered if the person who wrote the article had ever even been to Malta, and he was seriously considering writing the magazine and setting them straight.

Before he could come to a decision though, Caplan's voice echoed throughout the tiny room, catching him by surprise, although not quite so much as the words he spoke.

"So, who are you, anyway? What are you, twenty-two, twenty-three?" Caplan leaned forward and exhaled loudly, running one hand through his messy hair and shaking his head slightly.

It seemed that for whatever reason, Caplan had been pondering these questions for quite some time. His guess at his age was actually pretty close, but the first question…the first question was a question that Sark couldn't even answer in his head.

Caplan continued his unexpected game of twenty questions. "What are you doing working for a guy like Sloane? What do you expect to get out of all this?"

_What am I getting out of all of this?_ Sark asked himself. Sometimes he thought that he only did this as a way to pass the time, but other times he really enjoyed his work. He was the best at what he did. But hearing these peculiar questions fall from the lips of someone else (or was it the look of genuine curiosity in Caplan's eyes, as though he truly wanted to understand what made Sark tick) made something inside of him feel compelled to answer the scientist honestly. What did it matter, anyway? After all, Caplan would be dead soon, and was therefore not a threat to him.

Sark slowly closed his magazine and sucked on the insides of his cheeks before answering carefully. "I was sent to school in England at a very young age." _What was I, five, maybe six?_

He continued. "Out of necessity, one becomes …self-reliant and perhaps prematurely ambitious." I killed more than one man before I'd even turned seventeen. I'd say that qualifies as "prematurely ambitious," wouldn't you? "I'm like anyone, Mr. Caplan. What I want is that which I never had." And what is that? Family, peace, a reason to live? He'd never had any of those, even as a child, when life was supposed to be simple and carefree.

The entire time Sark had been talking Caplan had been staring at him intently. When he stopped, something flickered in Caplan's eyes as a sudden realization dawned on him. "You're gonna kill me, aren't you?"

Technically, no. But yes, you will be dead within the hour. "You wouldn't have shared any of that stuff with me if you expected me to live." Caplan was challenging him, trying to make him say more than he already had, or trying to make Sark contradict him. But he wouldn't lie to the man. Why bother?

With the vague feeling that he had said too much, Sark opened his magazine again. "I suggest you keep working," he said quietly.

Before he had read one paragraph (he had reread the first sentence ten times before moving on), a gunshot sounded from nearby. Sark was on his feet in an instant, and Caplan looked torn between relief and alarm. The two guards on the other side of the room looked to Sark for instruction. A few rapid sentences came smoothly from his mouth as easily as if it were his native tongue.

The guards nodded and moved out into the hallway, their guns drawn. Sark pulled out his own gun, and looked over at Caplan, who was looking at him strangely, almost as if he wanted to ask another question. Without a word, Sark removed the disc from Caplan's computer and left the room, resisting the urge to look back over his shoulder.

A voice rang out just as Sark reached the end of the hallway.

"Freeze!"

God, but he would recognize that voice anywhere. The little wannabe soldier boy was butting in once again. Sark didn't have the time to aim accurately, but he squeezed off a few shots and prayed that they went straight through Michael Vaughn's heart.

The returning shots and rapidly approaching footsteps told him he wasn't that lucky. It didn't matter, of course. They wouldn't catch him. Not today. Once Sark was on the roof he made straight for the ledge. Without hesitation, he jumped off and simultaneously pulled a cord from the inside of his jacket.

His descent slowed considerably and he hit the ground (a little roughly) just a minute later. Calmly, he cut the lines that were holding him back, and walked off into the night, feeling inexplicably anxious, and more than a little disturbed.

ooooooooooooooo

The new titles just kept coming in. Sark now had a pretty research badge to pin to his jacket. It could go right under chauffeur. Sark reflected on what this non-existent jacket and all of its little badges and medals might look like as he entered Sloane's newest office.

Sloane was reclining behind his desk, that creepy, vacant expression in his eyes. But Sark was used to it by now, so he ignored it and began his report.

"I found the man we're looking for."

The man they were looking for was one of the most efficient assassins in the world. Almost as efficient as Sark himself.

"He lives in Panama City. I can be there in seventeen hours."

This could get exciting real quick. Two of the best killers in the world in the same town, in the same building, in the same room…

"No," Sloane said firmly. "The CIA has a copy of the database Caplan decrypted. They'll deduce who it is we're after if they haven't already done it." _And your point is?_

"What do you suggest?" _Please, what pearls of wisdom will you be doling out today? _

Sloane pulled a pen from his desk and scribbled on a blank piece of paper in front of him. "I suggest you call this number." _And I suggest you go jump off a cliff._

Sark pocketed the paper when Sloane slid it across the desk. "A recording will answer for a limousine service. You will leave your cell number only. Within five minutes a man will call you. You tell him exactly what you need."

Why would I want to tell a stranger that I need a vacation and a new boss?

Sloane's next question was a bit tricky to answer. "Have you heard from Irina?" Of course. In fact, I hear from her every damn day.

"She's in Cyprus…" Hmmm…what should he say she was doing? "…inspecting some properties to take the place of the facility in Spain." That was believable enough. Wait, do we have a facility in Spain?

"I see."

Sark watched as Sloane poured himself a drink. He was briefly reminded of their first meeting when Sloane had tempted him with wine. "I thought I would have some measure of satisfaction with Diane Dixon's death." Yes, well, you're an idiot. "I killed the wrong person." I'd say. But I don't think that you would take kindly if I told you who I thought you should've killed instead of Diane.

Sark went for the obvious choice. "Dixon?"

The liquid in Sloane's glass was disappearing at an alarming rate. "I'm taking a leave. I want you to continue without me." Sark's mind literally froze for a millisecond before whirling into gear and processing this new information.

What the hell was Sloane thinking? Obviously, he was not Sark's favorite person, but to just throw away your entire life's work…it just wasn't right. People don't just wake up one morning and say, 'Okay, I'm tired of this. I quit.' It just wasn't done, especially by people like Sloane.

"Sir, not to belittle your grief... but do not deny yourself the victory of a thirty-year pursuit." Thirty years, that's older than I am. And he's going to just give it up right before the finish line. Even I think that's sad.

"If I don't see you again, Mr. Sark, tell Irina that I hope you both succeed where I couldn't." Sloane stood up and walked, a little unsteadily, out of the room, leaving Sark standing there with his mouth slightly open.


	23. Kill Him

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

It was time for Sark to check in on Fr—Allison, again. It was difficult for him to think of Allison by her name while she was inhabiting Francie's body. It felt strange. Sark hesitantly dialed Allison's number and brought the phone to his ear. A cold, emotionless voice answered on the second ring. They dispensed with the greetings, per usual, and got down to business. Sark hadn't even had the chance to ask her how things were going before she took the initiative, which was rare.

"Will Tippin may be compromised." _Damnit_ This was just what he didn't need right now. A loose cannon.

"Our superiors deal in absolutes. Either he is or he's not." _Please say that he's not, or we'll both be in for it. _

Allison's voice became a little less flat as she briefed him. "The CIA is on a mole hunt to find out who accessed the defense satellite communications system. It's only a matter of time before they trace it back to Tippin, and then to me." Yes, and that would be a shame…

Needing some time to plot out the best course of action, Sark hung up with Allison with the promise of calling her back as soon as he could.

ooooooooooooooo

Later, Sark stood in Irina's office in front of her desk, wanting to consult with her before he did anything too drastic. "I assume Sloane will want Tippin killed before the CIA interrogates him." Would Irina let Tippin to die? He was, after all, a close friend of her daughter's…

Even though Irina was leaning back in her chair, she gave off the impression that at any moment she might spring from the chair and attack. She just had that coiled type of energy about her.

"Sloane's gone. Perhaps for good." _We can always hope, can't we?_ "We can't wait for his return." _Best not to, really. Could be months, or even years. _

Sark ran his knuckles along the edge of Irina's desk as he talked. "If the CIA uses regression therapy to find out who he's been leaking information to, our Los Angeles asset will be compromised." Sark suddenly wasn't sure if that would be a bad thing after all. Somebody was going to have to take the fall for this, and all he knew was that it wasn't going to be him.

"I don't want Tippin killed." Interesting, but I'm not sure I want him killed either. "I've set up a meeting with someone who can help us re-acquire the Di Regno heart. He'll get us the plans to the NSA facility where they keep the Rambaldi artifacts. In the meantime tell our asset Tippin's frame needs to be convincing."

Irina pulled open one of the drawers on the side of the desk, and Sark knew that he was dismissed. Now he just had to ring back Allison and tell her the plan.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark pressed the phone closer to his ear, knowing that he must have heard incorrectly. "She what?"

Allison's voice sounded slightly disbelieving, too. "Bristow broke her cover with me. She told me she's CIA." Why would she do such a thing?

"Did she give you an explanation?"

"Given what's happening with Tippin, she was concerned with my safety, of all things," Allison said, sounding amused. Sark could understand why; it was pretty funny in an ironic sort of way.

"Bristow's willingness to confide in you is an advantageous development that will be lost if Tippin gives you up."

"I intercepted a DOJ transmission. They're moving Tippin to a more secure location. Once he's there he will be unreachable."

Tippin's name sounded different whenever Allison said it. It sounded forbidden and painful, as though she could hardly stand to say his name. Sark had noticed this before, but brushed it aside as paranoia. Why would it hurt Allison to talk about that stupid, annoying, ex-reporter. She couldn't possibly li--- Sark cut himself off abruptly. He didn't want to go there.

"Organize a team to intercept the transport and extract him. To the CIA, this will confirm his value to us."

"And once we have him?" Allison asked, trying to sound indifferent about Will Tippin's fate.

Sark thought about what Irina had said about not wanting Tippin killed. And then he thought of the way Allison had said his name, the suppressed emotion in her voice. She had never said his name in that tone.

"Kill him."

Just in case.

Ignoring the sharp intake of breath on the other end, Sark hung up without saying good-bye and stomped out of the dark warehouse he had been in, a frown marring his features. His mood had just taken a drastic turn for the worse.

A growl from his stomach informed Sark that he was hungry. He was within walking distance of a decent pub, so he set off down the sidewalk, pitying any innocent bystanders he might run into along the way.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark listened impatiently while Allison brought him up to date. Things just kept getting more and more complicated, and it made Sark feel that he was losing control. He didn't like that feeling, but there wasn't anything he could really do to stop it. Allison's last sentence had finally sunken in and he was forced to respond. "Sydney Bristow's headed to Marseilles?"

"Should I follow her?" Allison asked. She did not seem all too eager for the job.

As much as Sark wanted to separate her from Tippin, he couldn't. "Stay there. Finding Tippin is your priority." _And mine_, he added silently. Irina walked into the room and he immediately hung up.

"How did it go?" He asked as Irina settled herself behind her desk.

"The NSA facility uses state-of-the-art locking mechanisms." _Amateur stuff_, Sark thought contemptuously.

"We've bypassed systems like that before."

Irina was looking at him with her usual hypnotic stare, as though sizing him up. "The access codes I downloaded from the CIA Echelon system won't work anymore. The NSA uses a time-synchronized key card."

That really was no problem either. They would just need someone to, uh…volunteer information. "Presumably a CIA agent, under the proper duress, could obtain such a key card." He hesitated, knowing that he was going to have to confess to Irina. He was not eager to do so, because there was no way he could predict what her reaction might be. "I'm about to confess something that will either delight you -- which I hope is the case, that would be nice -- or it will make you furious."

He wanted her approval so badly, but would she approve of Tippin's murder? Somehow he didn't think so. "While you were away Will Tippin was ordered to Camp Harris for unrestricted interrogation. They would have found out about our asset."

Irina's eyes had gone hard, though her face remained blank. "What did you do?" She asked softly.

"I instructed that he be extracted and killed." He braced himself and met Irina's gaze. Her expression hadn't changed, but Sark knew Irina well enough to know when she was furious. And she was furious now.

"I told you I didn't want him killed. Your asset could have been pulled from the field." _But I'm really not all that eager to have Allison back, truth be told. I just don't want her anywhere near Tippin. _

"Yes, I know, but the situation had changed. Sydney, out of fear for Francie's life, told her she was going to Marseilles to recover evidence that would clear Tippin." And that would be very bad indeed.

Her voice was still dangerously soft. "Is he dead?" _Not yet, but he will be if I have my way._

"No, he's at large and believed to have escaped, which should provide us the leverage we need to get into the NSA. If we recover the evidence in Marseilles before Sydney we can force her hand. Proof of Will's innocence in exchange for her aid in securing a key card." Now tell me that I'm not a genius.

Irina considered this briefly, and then nodded her approval. Sark left her office feeling relieved that he was off the hook. But if he knew Irina at all, she would want payback for him going against her orders. He would worry about that later, though.


	24. An Act of Insanity

**Disclaimer: See chapter one. **

The warehouse loomed ahead. Sark pulled around to the back of the abandoned building and parked. Another vehicle was already there. Allison's vehicle. It would be the first time he had seen her in months, so why was he so reluctant to go in? He did want to see her, didn't he?

With an impending sense of doom, Sark slowly got out of his car and headed for the building. He hesitated with his hand on the door handle, and then stepped inside, clutching Allison's pill bottle tightly in one hand.

It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did, he immediately saw Allison a few feet away, smoking a cigarette. She threw it down and stomped on it before turning to face him.

"Provacillium to the rescue," he said jovially, lifting the bottle for her inspection.

Her face remained blank. No smile, no frown, just nothing. "Thanks. The fever's reading bad. So what are we doing with Tippin?" Her eagerness to discuss Tippin was disconcerting, especially since Sark already had his vague suspicions.

"Nothing... for the moment."

"Then when am I getting extracted? I don't know what new evidence the CIA has all of a sudden but it's going to lead to me." _Yes, inevitably it will. Are you sure you don't want to stay with your beloved Tippin?_

"Not necessarily. If you disappear now you'll be a suspect for sure."

Allison had noticed his change in demeanor. She and Irina both had always been able to tell when something was a little off kilter with him. "What is it?"

Sark moved towards her, knowing he couldn't stall any longer. "Allison... we can't reverse the process. Markovic's lab was destroyed. But we're doing everything we can to retrieve the lost data. And I'm hopeful that we will find a way to reverse the process." _But it isn't likely that we ever will. _

Allison's mask slipped, and her face took on a look of horror and dismay. "I may have to stay this way?"

"No, no. We'll get you back." His words were not reassuring Allison, who had obviously found something fascinating to stare at on the floor.

Sark gently took her chin in hand and forced her head back up. "Look at me. We'll get you back," he said, with a firmness he did not feel.

Her expression was still dubious. Before she could voice any concerns, Sark quickly lowered his mouth to hers, effectively cutting off anything she might want to say. She returned his kiss, but something wasn't right. It wasn't like before, and it wasn't just because Francie's skin and mouth felt different than Allison's did. And it was a damn good kiss, but her mind was elsewhere. He could tell.

Sark suddenly broke away and stared at her incredulously. "You don't... fancy him, do you? Tippin?" Sure, he had had his fuzzy concerns as of late, but he had never taken them too seriously. Maybe he should have.

The cool, blank mask was back in place as Allison stepped away from him. "Don't be stupid," she said coldly, avoiding his gaze. That statement said it all. Don't be stupid. It was a defensive statement, and it didn't answer his question at all.

Apparently, their meeting was over, because Allison was heading for the door. Sark turned and watched her go, a calculating gleam in his eye. It would seem that Tippin meant something to Allison, whatever it might be. Perhaps it was just lust, but it made Sark wonder if it would interfere with Allison's job. If it came down to it, and Allison was ordered to get rid of Tippin, would she be able to go through with it?

Of course she would, Sark reasoned. She was still Allison, after all. Nothing more than a machine, an efficient, obedient machine. And she would do as she was told. If she didn't, Sark might have to "deal" with her himself.

And unlike Allison, or Sydney even, he had no qualms with killing a lover. He would do his job above all else.

ooooooooooooooo

As Sark neared the club where he was going to be "captured," his stomach started doing somersaults. Why was he doing this? It was insane.

He had silently thought Irina a fool when she had turned herself into the C.I.A., and here he was about to do the exact same thing. Maybe he was the fool, especially since he had no idea where this would take him. He could very well spend the rest of his days locked up like an animal. On the other hand, he could escape within a week.

Sark thought about what it would be like to spend the next few decades sitting on a hard cot in a dimly lit room as he and his men rode the escalator to the top floor of the building. He imagined it would be a very droll existence, even with the meditation and mind exercises Irina had taught him.

It took Sark less than three seconds to spot Sydney and Mr. Obvious sitting at the bar when he exited the elevator. They were talking quietly, and at the same time trying to be discreet. They were failing badly, or at least Michael Vaughn was. He kept glancing around the room every few seconds as if Sark would materialize in front of him simply because he wished it. Moron.

The man who had been waiting for Sark stood as he approached the table. They shook hands and greeted each other cordially before taking a seat. Sark figured he had another 30 seconds before Sydney and Vaughn assaulted him.

He began counting down in his head, while at the same time wondering if "Agent" Vaughn would try to exact revenge for their past encounters, in which he had come off looking badly each time. And with Sydney looking on, he would probably pull a macho-tough guy act to impress her. How pathetic.

It was actually only 26 seconds before Sydney and Vaughn yelled "FREEZE!" in unison and pointed their guns at him. Vaughn moved quickly to Sark's side, grabbed a handful of blonde hair, and brought his head down to meet the table. A trickle of blood ran out of Sark's nose as he lifted his head. _Goddamn stupid son of a bitch. That hurt_.

"See? When I have a gun trained on you, I don't just pull the trigger!" Vaughn said, attempting to pull the macho man routine, just as Sark had predicted. But Sark wasn't going to play along.

He looked coolly back at Michael Vaughn. "Thank you," he said softly, sounding a little breathless.

It seemed that Agent Vaughn was not pleased with this response, for he grabbed Sark's hair and rammed his head into the table once again. Was that the best he could do?

Vaughn tried to sneer and at best his attempt could maybe be called a snivel. "You're welcome."

Sydney had obviously had enough of the alpha male games, because she chose this time to break in. "Where the hell is my father?" She demanded.

Sark tried to hesitate before answering, on the pretext of considering his options, although he already knew what to say. He regarded Sydney warily. "Not a problem. My loyalties are flexible. Sloane and your father are in Mexico City."

A little sliver of emotion sliced through Sark, and it took him a few seconds to figure out why. Mexico City. The city where he had committed his largest atrocity to date.

That seemed to be all the information Sydney needed, for she nodded at Vaughn, who, rather roughly, proceeded to pull Sark out of his chair. And minutes later, as Sark was manhandled and dragged from the building, he couldn't help but wonder why he had agreed to this in the first place. Maybe he really was the crazy one.

ooooooooooooooo

**Later at C.I.A. HQ in ****Sark****'s**** New Home:**

The cell was almost exactly as he had imagined it would be. It was small, dark, and dreary, perfect for holding a dangerous international terrorist such as himself. A large man with a shiny baldhead stood in front of him, pacing and listening intently to something through his earpiece.

Presumably, it was Sydney and her lover boy, on their big mission in Mexico City. It didn't hurt as much to think the name as it did to say it out loud. Mexico City.

The bald man, Kendall, wheeled around suddenly to face Sark, the light reflecting off his head. Sark wondered if he should ask for sunglasses. "Copy that, Mountaineer." He looked at Sark menacingly. "They're in the basement, now what?" His voice held a threat that made Sark squelch his impulse to tell them all exactly where they could go.

He should probably behave himself, especially as this might be his permanent address for quite a while. "The alarm system for Sloane's floor is located twenty yards down the north wall. A gray box with a yellow stripe. The deactivation code is 1-1-5-6-6."

Kendall was giving him a hard look, as though sizing him up. "If this intel turns out to be wrong, I will personally escort you to Camp Harris and I won't leave until you're dead and buried."

Camp Harris…the name doesn't sound to bad. I wonder if they have activities, like boating or archery?

"Then I certainly hope Mr. Sloane hasn't changed the code," Sark said demurely.

After one last look at Sark, Kendall relayed the information to Sydney. "Mountaineer, there's a gray box with a yellow stripe twenty yards down on the north wall. You will enter 1-1-5-6-6."

_I should've given them the wrong code and blown them all to kingdom come,_ Sark thought, a little viciously. It was quickly becoming apparent to him that being cooped up wasn't going to do much for his attitude.

God help him, but what had he gotten himself into?


End file.
